»»»»»>  THE 

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No.  36. 


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111111 


25  c. 


October  13,  1894.  Issued  Daily.  Annual  Subscription.  $75.00 

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DARK  DAYS 


BT 

HUGH  COjNTW^Y, 

AUTHOR  OP 

‘"CALLED  BACK.” 


NEW  YORK 

INTERNATIONAL  BOOK  COMPANTt 

'n 

3IO-318  SIXTH  AVENUE 


DARK 


DAYS. 


CHAPTER  L 

▲ PKAYEB  AND  A YOW. 

WHEN  this  story  of  my  life,  or  of  such  portions  of 
my  life  as  present  any  out-of-tlie-common  features, 
is  read,  it  will  be  found  that  I have  committed  errors  of 
judgment — that  I have  sinned  not  only  socially,  but  also 
against  the  law  of  the  land.  In  excuse  I can  plead  but 
two  things — the  strength  of  love ; the  weakness  of  human 
nature. 

If  these  carry  no  weight  with  you,  throw  the  book 
aside.  You  are  too  good  for  me ; I am  too  human  for 
you.  We  cannot  be  friends.  Read  no  further. 

I need  say  nothing  about  my  childhood ; nothing  about 
my  boyhood.  Let  me  hurry  on  to  early  manhood ; to 
that  time  when  the  wonderful  dreams  of  youth  begin  to 
leave  one;  when  the  impulse  which  can  drive  sober  rea- 
son aside  must  be,  indeed,  a strong  one ; when  one  has 
learned  to  count  the  cost  of  every  rash  step ; when  the 
transient  and  fitful  flames  of  the  boy  have  settled  down 
to  a steady,  glowing  fire  which  will  bum  until  only 
ashes  are  left  j when  the  strength,  the  nerve,  the  in  tel- 


4 DARK  DATS. 

lect,  is  or  should  he  at  its  height;  when,  in  short,  one's 
years  number  thirty. 

Yet  what  was  I then?  A soured,  morose,  disappointed 
man;  without  ambition,  without  care  for  the  morrow; 
without  a goal  or  object  in  life.  Breathing,  eating, 
drinking,  as  by  instinct.  Rising  in  the  morning,  and 
wishing  the  day  were  over ; lying  down  at  night,  and 
caring  little  whether  the  listless  eyes  I closed  might  open 
again  or  not. 

And  why  ? All ! to  know  why  you  must  sit  with  me 
as  I sit  lonely  over  my  glowing  lire  one  winter  night. 
You  must  read  my  thoughts  ; the  pictures  of  my  past 
must  rise  before  you  as  they  rise  before  me.  My  sorrow, 
my  hate,  my  love  must  be  yours.  You  must,  indeed,  be 
my  very  self. 

You  may  begin  this  retrospect  with  triumph.  You 
may  go  back  to  the  day  whenf after  having  passed  my 
examination  with  high  honors,  I,  Basil  North,  was  duly 
entitled  to  write  M.D.  after  my  name,  and  to  set  to  work 
to  win  fame  and  fortune  by  doing  my  best  toward  re- 
lieving the  sufferings  of  my  fellow-creatures.  You  may 
say  as  I said  then,  as  I say  now,  “ A noble  career ; a life 
full  of  interest  and  usefulness.” 

You  may  see  me  full  of  hope  and  courage,  and  ready 
for  any  amount  of  hard  work ; settling  down  in  a large 
provincial  town,  resolved  to  beat  out  a practice  for  my- 
self. You  may  see  how,  after  the  usual  initiatory  strug- 
gles, my  footing  gradually  grew  firmer ; how  my  name 
became  familiar;  how,  at  last,  I seemed  to  be  in  a fair 
way  of  winning  success. 

You  may  see  how  for  a while  a dream  brightened  my 
life;  liow  that  dream  faded,  and  left  gloom  in  its  placu 
You  may  see  the  woman  I loved. 


DARK  DAYS. 


5 


No,  I am  wrong.  Her  you  cannot  see.  Only  I my- 
self can  see  Philippa  as  I saw  her  then- — as  I see  her  now. 

Heavens!  how  fair  she  was!  How  glorious  her  rich 
dark  beauty!  How  different  from  the  pink- white  and 
yellow  dolls  whom  I have  seen  exalted  as  the  types  of 
perfection!  Warm  Southern  blood  ran  through  her 
veins  and  tinged  her  clear  brown  cheek  with  color.  Her 
mother  was  an  Englishwoman;  but  it  was  Spain  that 
gave  her  daughter  that  exquisite  grace,  those  wondrous 
dark  eyes  and  long  curled  lashes,  that  mass  of  soft  black 
hair,  that  passionate  impulsive  nature,  and,  perhaps,  that 
queen-like  carriage  and  dignity.  The  English  mother 
may  have  given  the  girl  many  good  gifts,  but  her  beauty 
came  from  the  father,  whom  she  had  never  known ; the 
Andalusian,  who  died  while  she  was  but  a child  in  arms. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  her  foreign  grace,  Philippa  was  Eng- 
lish. Her  Spanish  origin  was  to  her  but  a tradition. 
Her  foot  had  never  touched  her  father’s  native  land. 
Its  language  was  strange  to  her.  She  was  born  in  Eng- 
land, and  her  father,  the  nature  of  whose  occupation  I 
have  not  been  able  to  ascertain,  seems  to  have  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  this  country. 

When  did  I learn  to  love  her?  Ask  me  rather,  When 
did  we  first  meet?  Even  then,  as  my  eyes  fell  upon  the 
girl,  I knew,  as  by  revelation,  that  for  me  life  and  her 
love  meant  one  and  the  same  thing.  Till  that  moment 
there  was  no  woman  in  the  world  the  sight  of  whom 
would  have  quickened  my  pulse  by  a beat.  I had  read 
and ' heard  of  such  love  as  this.  I had  laughed  at  it. 
There  seemed  no  room  for  such  an  engrossing  passion  in 
my  busy  life.  Yet  all  at  once  I loved  as  man  has  never 
loved  before ; and  as  I sit  to-night  and  gaze  into  the  fire 
I tell  myself  that  the  objectless  life  I am  leading  is  the 


6 


DARK  DAYS. 


only  one  possible  for  the  man  who  loved  but  failed  to 
win  Philippa. 

Our  first  meeting  was  brought  about  in  a most  prosaic 
way.  Her  mother,  who  suffered  from  a chronic  disease, 
consulted  me  professionally.  My  visits,  at  first  those  of 
a doctor,  soon  became  those  of  a friend,  and  I was  free 
to  woo  the  girl  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 

Philippa  and  her  mother  lived  in  a small  house  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  They  were  not  rich  people,  but 
had  enough  to  keep  the  pinch  of  poverty  from  their  lives. 
The  mother  was  a sweet,  quiet,  lady-like  woman,  who 
bore  her  sufferings  with  resignation.  Her  health  was, 
indeed,  wretched.  The  only  thing  which  seemed  likely 
to  benefit  her  was  continual  change  of  air  and  scene. 
After  attending  her  for  about  six  months,  I was  in  con- 
science bound  to  indorse  the  opinion  of  her  former  medi- 
cal advisers,  and  tell  her  it  would  be  well  for  her  to  try 
another  change. 

My  heart  was  heavy  as  I gave  this  advice.  H*  adopted, 
it  meant  that  Philippa  and  I must  part. 

But  why,  during  those  six  months,  had  I not,  passion- 
ately in  love  as  I was,  won  the  girl’s  heart  ? Why  did 
she  not  leave  me  as  my  affianced  bride  ? Why  did  I let 
her  leave  me  at  all? 

The  answer  is  short.  She  loved  me  not. 

Hot  that  she  had  ever  told  me  so  in  words.  I had 
never  asked  her  in  words  for  her  love.  But  she  must 
have  known — she  must  have  known ! When  I was  with 
her,  every  look,  every  action  of  mine  must  have  told  her 
the  truth.  Women  are  not  fools  or  blind.  A man  who, 
loving  as  I did,  can  conceal  the  true  state  of  his  feelings 
must  be  more  than  mortal. 

I had  not  spoken;  I dared  not  speak.  Better  uneer* 


DARK  DATS. 


7 


tainty  with  hope,  than  certainty  with  despair.  The  day 
on  which  Philippa  refnsed  my  love  would  be  as  the  day 
of  death  to  me. 

Besides,  what  had  I to  offer  her  ? Although  succeed- 
ing fairly  well  for  a beginner,  at  present  I could  only 
ask  the  woman  I made  my  wife  to  share  comparative 
poverty.  And  Philippa!  Ah!  I would  have  wrapped 
Philippa  in  luxury ! All  that  wealth  could  buy  ought  to 
be  hers.  Had  yon  seen  her  in  the  glory  of  her  fresh 
young  beauty,  you  would  have  smiled  at  the  presump- 
tion of  the  man  who  could  expect  such  a being  to  become 
the  wife  of  a hard-working  and  as  yet  ill-paid  doctor. 
You  would  have  felt  that  she  should  have  had  the  world 

at  her  feet.  . 

Had  I thought  that  she  loved  me,  I might  perhaps 

have  dared  to  hope  she  would  even  then  have  been  happy 
as  my  wife.  But  she  did  not  love  me.  Moreover,  she 

was  ambitions.  . . , 

She  knew— small  blame  to  her— how  beautiful  she 

was.  Do  I wrong  her  when  I say  that  in  those  days  she 
looked  for  the  gifts  of  rank  and  riches  from  the  man  who 
loved  her?  She  knew  that  she  was  a queen  among 
women,  and  expected  a queen’s  dues. 

(Sweetest,  are  my  words  cruel  1 They  are  the  crudest  I 
have  spoken,  or  shall  speak,  against  you.  Forgive  them !) 

We  were  friends— great  friends.  Such  friendship  is 
love’s  bane.  It  buoys  false  hopes ; it  lulls  to  security ; it 
leads  astray;  it  is  a stafiE  which  breaks  suddenly,  and 
wounds  the  hand  which  leans  upon  it.  So  little  it  seems 
to  need  to  make  friendship  grow  into  love;  and  yet  how 
seldom  that  little  is  added ! The  love  which  begins  with 
hate  or  dislike  is  often  luckier  than  that  which  begin* 
with  friendship.  Lovers  cannot  be  friends. 


° DARK  DATS. 

Philippa  and  her  mother  left  my  neighborhood,  then 
went  to  London  for  a while.  I heard  from  them  occa- 
sionally, and  once  or  twice,  when  in  town,  called  upon 
them.  Time  went  by.  I worked  hard  at  my  profession 
the  while,  striving,  by  sheer  toil,  to  drive  away  the  dream 
from  my  life.  Alas ! I strove  in  vain.  To  love  Philippa 
was  to  love  her  forever ! 

One  morning  a letter  came  from  her.  I tore  it  open. 
The  news  it  contained  was  grievous.  Her  mother  had 
died  suddenly.  Philippa  was  alone  in  the  world.  So 
far  as  I knew,  she  had  not  a relation  left ; and  I believed, 
perhaps  hoped,  that,  save  myself,  she  had  no  friend. 

. I ^eeded  no  time  for  consideration.  That  afternoon  I 
was  in  London.  If  I could  not  comfort  her  in  her  great 
sorrow,  I could  at  least  sympathize  with  her,  could  un- 
dertake the  management  of  the  many  business  details 
which  are  attendant  upon  a death. 

Poor  Philippa!  She  was  glad  to  see  me.  Through 
her  tears  she  flashed  me  a look  of  gratitude.  I did  all  I 
could  for  her,  and  stayed  in  town  until  the  funeral  was 
over.  Then  I was  obliged  to  think  of  going  home. 
What  was  to  become  of  the  girl  ? 

Kith  or  kin  she  had  none,  nor  did  she  mention  the 
name  of  any  friend  who  would  be  willing  to  receive  her. 
As  I suspected,  she  was  absolutely  alone  in  the  world.  As 
soon  as  my  back  was  turned  she  would  have  no  one  on 
whom  she"  could  count  for  sympathy  or  help. 

It  must  have  been  her  utter  loneliness  which  urged  me, 
in  spite  of  my  better  judgment,  in  spite  of  the  grief 
which  still  oppressed  her,  to  throw  myself  at  her  feet 
and  declare  the  desire  of  my  heart.  My  words  I cannot 
recall,  but  I think — I know  I pleaded  eloquently.  Such 
passion  as  mine  gives  power  and  intensity  to  the  most 


DARK  DAYS. 


9 


nnpractised  speaker.  Yet  long  before  my  appeal  was 
ended  I knew  that  I pleaded  in  vain.  Her  eyes,  ber 
manner,  told  me  she  loved  me  not. 

Then,  remembering  her  present  helpless  condition,  I 
checked  myself.  I begged  her  to  forget  the  words  I had 
spoken ; not  to  answer  them  now;  to  let  me  say  them 
again  in  some  months5  time.  Let  me  still  be  her  friend, 
and  render  her  such  service  as  I could. 

She  shook  her  head ; she  held  out  her  hand.  The  first 
action  meant  the  refusal  of  my  love ; the  second,  the  ac- 
ceptance of  my  friendship.  I schooled  myself  to  calm- 
ness, and  we  discussed  her  plans  for  the  future. 

She  was  lodging  in  a house  in  a quiet,  respectable 
street  near  Kegent’s  Park.  She  expressed  her  intention 
of  staying  on  here  for  a while. 

« But  alone l”  I exclaimed. 

“ Why  not  ? What  have  I to  fear  ? Still,  I am  open 
to  reason,  if  you  can  suggest  another  plan.” 

I could  suggest  no  other.  Philippa  was  past  twenty- 
one  and  would  at  once  succeed  to  whatever  money  had 
been  her  mother’s.  This  was  enough  to  live  upon.  She 
had  no  friends,  and  must  live  somewhere.  Why  should 
she  not  stay  on  at  her  present  lodgings  ? Nevertheless,  I 
trembled  as  I thought  of  this  beautiful  girl  all  alone  in 
London.  Why  could  she  not  love  me  ? Why  could  she 
not  be  my  wife  ? It  needed  all  my  self-restraint  to  keep 
me  from  breaking  afresh  into  passionate  appeals. 

As  she  would  not  give  me  the  right  to  dispose  of  her 
future,  I could  no  nothing  more.  I bade  her  a sad  fare- 
well, then  went  back  to  my  home  to  conquer  my  un- 
happy love,  or  to  suffer  from  its  fresh  inroads. 

Conquer  it!  Such  love  as  mine  is  never  conquered. 
It  is  a man’s  life.  Philippa  was  never  absent  from  my 


10 


BARK  BAYS. 


thoughts.  Let  my  frame  of  mind  be  gay  or  grave, 
Philippa  was  always  present. 

Now  and  then  she  w^rote  to  me,  but  her  letters  told  me 
little  as  to  her  mode  of  life;  they  were  short  friendly 
epistles,  and  gave  me  little  hope. 

Yet  I was  not  quite  hopeless.  I felt  that  I had  been 
too  hasty  in  asking  her  for  her  love  so  soon  after  her 
mother’s  death.  Let  her  recover  from  the  shock,  then  I 
will  try  again.  Three  months  was  the  time  which  in  my 
own  mind  I resolved  should  elapse  before  I again  ap- 
proached her  with  words  of  love.  Three  months ! How 
wearily  they  dragged  themselves  away ! 

Toward  the  end  of  my  self-imposed  term  of  probation 
I fancied  that  a brighter,  gayer  tone  manifested  itself  in 
Philippa’s  letters.  Fool  that  I was ! I augured  well  from 
this. 

Telling  myself  that  such  love  as  mine  must  win  in  the 
end,  I went  to  London,  and  once  more  saw  Philippa*- 
She  received  me  kindly.  Although  her  garb  was  still 
that  of  deep  mourning,  never,  I thought,  had  she  looked 
more  beautiful.  Not  long  after  our  first  greeting  did  I 
wait  before  I began  to  plead  again.  She  stopped  me  at 
the  outset. 

“Hush,”  she  said;  “I  have  forgotten  your  former 
words ; let  us  still  be  friends.” 

“ Never  1”  I cried  passionately.  “ Philippa,  answer  me 
once  for  all,  tell  me  you  can  love  me !” 

She  looked  at  me  compassionately.  “ How  can  I best 
answer  you?”  she  said,  musingly.  “The  sharpest 
remedy  is  perhaps  the  kindest.  Basil,  will  you  under- 
stand me  when  I say  it  is  too  late  ?” 

“ Too  late ! What  can  you  mean  ? Has  another — ” 
The  words  died  on  my  lips  as  Philippa,  drawing  a 


DARK  DATS. 


11 


ring  from  the  fourth  finger  of  her  left  hand,  showed  me 
that  it  concealed  a plain  gold  circlet.  Her  eyes  met  mine 
imploringly. 

« I should  have  told  you  before,”  she  said  softly,  and 
bending  her  proud  head;  “kit  there  were  reasons — even 
now  I am  pledged  to  tell  no  one.  Basil,  I only  show  you 
this,  because  I know  you  will  take  no  other  answer.” 

I rose  without  a word.  The  room  seemed  whirling 
around  me.  The  only  thing  which  was  clear  to  my 
sight  was  that  cursed  gold  band  on  the  fair  white  hand  * 
that  symbol  of  possession  by  another ! In  that  moment 
hope  and  all  the  sweetness  of  life  seemed  swept  away 
from  me. 

Something  in  my  face  must  have  told  her  how  her 
news  affected  me.  She  came  to  me  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  my  arm.  I trembled  like  a leaf  beneath  her  touch. 
She  looked  beseechingly  into  my  face. 

“Oh,  not  like  that!”  she  cried.  “Basil,. I am  not 
worth  it.  I should  not  have  made  you  happy.  You 
will  forget— you  will  find  another.  If  I have  wronged 
or  misled  you,  say  you  forgive  me.  Let  me  hear  you, 
my  true  friend,  wish  me  happiness.” 

I strove  to  force  my  dry  lips  to  frame  some  conven- 
tional phrase.  In  vain  ! words  would  not  come.  I sank 
into  a chair  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands. 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  a man  entered.  He 
may  have  been  about  forty  years  of  age.  He  was  tall 
and  remarkably  handsome.  He  was  dressed  with  scru- 
pulous care ; but  there  was  something  written  on  his 
face  which  told  me  it  was  not  the  face  of  a good  man. 
As  I rose  from  my  chair  he  glanced  from  me  to  Philippa 
with  an  air  of  suspicious  inquiry. 

“Doctor  North,  an  old  friend  of  my  mother’s  and 


12 


DAKK  DAT*S. 


mine,”  she  said  with  composure.  “Mr.  Farmer,”  she 
added ; and  a rosy  blush  crept  round  her  neck  as  she 
indicated  the  new-comer  by  the  name  which  I felt  sure 
was  now  also  her  own. 

I bowed  mechanically.  I made  a few  disjointed 
remarks  about  the  weather  and  kindred  topics;  then  I 
shook  hands  with  Philippa  and  left  the  house,  the  most 
miserable  man  in  England. 

Philippa  married,  and  married  secretly ! How  could 
her  pride  have  stooped  to  a clandestine  union  ? What 
manner  of  man  was  he  who  had  won  her  ? Heavens  l 
lie  must  be  hard  to  please  if  he  cared  not  to  show  his 
conquest  to  the  light  of  day.  Cur ! sneak ! coward  f 
villain ! Stay ; he  may  have  his  own  reasons  for  con- 
cealment— reasons  known  to  Philippa  and  approved  of 
by  her.  Not  a word  against  her.  She  is  still  my  queen  ; 
the  one  woman  in  the  world  to  me.  What  she  has  done 
is  right ! 

I passed  a sleepless  night.  In  the  morning  I wrote  to 
Philippa.  I wished  her  all  happiness — I could  command 
my  pen,  if  not  my  tongue.  I said  no  word  about  the 
secrecy  of  the  wedding,  or  the  evils  so  often  consequent 
to  such  concealment.  But,  with  a foreboding  of  evil  to 
come,  I begged  her  to  remember  that  we  were  friends ; 
that,  although  I could  see  her  no  more,  whenever  she 
wanted  a friend’s  aid,  a word  would  bring  me  to  her 
side.  I used  no  word  of  blame.  I risked  no  expression 
of  love  or  regret.  No  thought  of  my  grief  should  jar 
upon  the  happiness  which  she  doubtless  expected  to 
find.  Farewell  the  one  dream  of  my  life!  Farewell 
Philippa ! 

Such  a passion  as  mine  may,  in  these  matter-of-fact, 
iMiromantic  days;  seem  an  anachronism.  No  matter, 


dark  days. 


13 


whether  to  sympathy  or  ridicule,  I am  but  laying  bar® 

my  true  thoughts  and  feelings. 

I would  not  return  to  my  horpe  at  once.  I shrank 
from  going  back  to  my  lonely  hearth  and  beginning  to 
eat  my  heart  out.  I had  made  arrangements  to  stay  m 
town  for  some  days;  so  I stayed,  trying  by  a course  of 
what  is  termed  gayety  to  drive  remembrance  away. 
Futile  effort ! How  many  have  tried  the  same  reputed 
remedy  without  success ! 

Four  days  after  my  interview  with  Philippa,  I was 
walking  with  a friend  who  knew  every  one  in  town.  As 
we  passed  the  door  of  one  of  the  most  exclusive  of  the 
clubs,  I saw,  standing  on  the  steps  talking  to  other  men, 
the  man  whom  I knew  was  Philippa’s  husband.  His 
face  was  turned  from  me,  so  I was  able  to  direct  my 
friend’s  attention  to  him. 

“Who  is  that  man?”  I asked. 

“ That  man  with  the  gardenia  in  his  coat  is  Sir  Mer- 
vyn  Ferrand.” 

“Who  is  he?  What  is  he?  What  kind  of  a man  is 
he?” 

“A  baronet.  Not  very  rich.  Just  about  the  usual 
kind  of  man  you  see  on  those  steps.  Very  popular  with 
the  ladies,  they  tell  me.” 

“ Is  lie  married  ?” 

“ Heaven  knows ! I don’t.  I never  heard  of  a Lady 
Ferrand,  although  there  must  be  several  who  are  morally 
entitled  to  use  the  designation.” 

And  this  was  her  husband— Philippa’s  husband ! 

I elinched  my  teeth.  Why  had  he  married  under  a 
fals«?  name?  Or  if  she  knew  that  name  by  which  she 
inti' id  need  him  to  me  was  false,  why  was  it  assumed? 
Why  had  the  marriage  been  clandestine?  Not  only  Sir 


14 


DARK  DATS, 


Mervyn  Ferrand,  bnt  the  noblest  in  the  land  should  be 
proud  of  winning  Philippa!  The  more  I thought  of 
the  matter,  the  more  wretched  I grew.  The  dread  that 
she  had  been  in  some  way  deceived  almost  drove  me 
mad.  The  thought  of  my  proud,  beautiful  queen  some 
day  finding  herself  humbled  to  the  dust  by  a scoundrel’s 
deceit  was  anguish.  What  could  I do  ? 

My  first  impulse  was  to  demand  an  explanation,  then 
and  there,  from  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand.  Yet  I had  no 
right  or  authority  so  to  do.  What  was  I to  Philippa 
save  an  unsuccessful  suitor?  Moreover,  I felt  that 
she  had  revealed  her  secret  to  me  in  confidence.  If 
there  were  good  reasons  for  the  concealment,  I might  do 
her  irretrievable  harm  by  letting  this  man  know  that  I 
was  aware  of  his  true  position  in  society.  No,  I could 
not  call  him  to  account.  But  I must  do  something,  or 
in  time  to  come  my  grief  may  be  rendered  doubly  deep 
by  self-reproach. 

The  next  day  I called  upon  Philippa.  She  would  at 
least  tell  me  if  the  name  under  which  the  man  married 
her  was  the  true  or  the  false  one.  Alas ! I found  she  had 
left  her  home  the  day  before — left  it  to  return  no  more  ! 
The  landlady  had  no  idea  whither  she  was  gone,  but 
believed  it  was  her  intention  to  leave  England. 

After  this  I threw  prudence  to  the  winds.  With  some 
trouble  I found  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  town  address. 
The  next  day  I called  on  him.  He  also,  I was  informed, 
had  just  left  England.  His  destination  was  also  unknown. 

I turned  away  moodily.  All  chance  of  doing  good 
was  at  an  end.  Let  the  marriage  be  true  or  false, 
Philippa  had  departed,  accompanied  by  the  man  who, 
for  purposes  of  his  own,  passed  under  the  name  of  Far- 
mer, but  who  was  really  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand. 


DABS  DAYS. 


15 


I went  back  to  my  home,  and  amid  the  wreck  of  my 
life’s  happiness*  murmured  a prayer  and  registered  an 
oath.  I prayed  that  honor  and  happiness  might  be  the 
lot  of  her  I loved;  I swore  that  were  she  wronged  I 
would  with  my  own  hand  take  vengeance  on  the  m^n 
who  wronged  her. 

For  myself  I prayed  nothing— not  even  forgetfulness, 
I loved  Philippa : I had  lost  her  forever ! The  past,  the 
present,  the  fuuv*  were  all  summed  up  in  these  words  1 


16 


DABK  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  n. 

A villain’s  blow. 

THEY  tell  me  there  are  natures  stern  enough  to  he 
able  to  crush  love  out  of  their  lives.  Ah!  not  sugIi 
love  as  mine ! Time,  they  say,  can  heal  every  wound. 
Not  such  a wound  as  mine!  My  whole  existence  under- 
went a change  when  Philippa  showed  me  the  wedding- 
ring  on  her  finger.  No  wonder  it  did.  Hope  was 
eliminated  from  it.  From  that  moment  I was  a changed 
man. 

Life  was  no  longer  worth  living.  The  spur  of  ambi- 
tion was  blunted ; the  desire  for  fame  gone ; the  interest 
which  I had  hitherto  felt  in  my  profession  vanished.  All 
the  spring,  the  elasticity,  seemed  taken  out  of  my  being. 
For  months  and  months  I did  my  work  in  a perfunctory 
manner.  It  gave  me  no  satisfaction  that  my  practice 
grew  larger.  I worked,  but  I cared  nothing  for  my 
work.  Success  gave  me  no  pleasure.  An  increase  to  the 
number  of  my  patients  was  positively  unwelcome  to  me. 
So  long  as  I made  money  enough  to  supply  my  daily 
needs,  what  did  it  matter  ? Of  what  use  was  wealth  to 
me  ? It  could  not  buy  me  the  one  thing  for  which  I 
craved.  Of  what  use  was  life?  No  wonder  that  such 
friends  as  I had  once  possessed  all  but  forsook  me.  My 
mood  at  that  time  was  none  of  the  sweetest.  I wanted 
no  friends.  I was  alone  in  the  world;  I should  be 
always  alone. 


DARK  DAYS. 


17 


So  things  went  on  for  more  than  a year.  I grew  worse 
instead  of  better.  My  gloom  deepened  ; my.  cynicism 
grew  more  confirmed ; my  life  became  more  and  more 
aimless. 

These  are  not  lovers’  rhapsodies.  I would  spare  you 
them  if  I could  ; but  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  know 
the  exact  state  of  my  mind  in  order  to  understand  my 
subsequent  conduct.  Even  now  it  seems  to  me  that  I am 
writing  this  description  with  my  heart’s  blood. 

Not  a word  came  from  Philippa.  I made  no  inquiries 
about  her,  took  no  steps  to  trace  her.  I dared  not.  Not 
for  one  moment  did  I forget  her,  and  through  all  those 
weary  months  tried  tOr  think  of  her  as  happy  and  to  be 
envied ; yet,  in  spite  of  myself,  I shuddered  as  I pictured 
her  lot  as  it  might  really  be. 

But  all  the  while  I knew  that  the  day  would  come 
when  I should  learn  whether  I was  to  be  thankful  that 
my  prayer  had  been  answered,  or  to  be  prepared  to  keep 
my  vow. 

In  my  misanthropical  state  of  mind  I heard  without 
the  slightest  feeling  of  joy  or  elation  that  a distant  rela- 
tive of  mine,  a man  from  whom  I expected  nothing,  had 
died  and  left  me  the  bulk  of  his  large  property.  I cared 
nothing  for  this  unexpected  wealth,  except  for  the  fact 
that  it  enabled  me  to  free  myself  from  a round  of  toil  in 
which  by  now  I took  not  the  slightest  interest.  Had  it 
but  come  two  or  three  years  before!  Alas ! all  things  in 
this  life  come  too  late. 

Now  that  I was  no  longer  forced  to  mingle  with  men 
in  order  to  gain  the  means  of  living,  I absolutely  shunned 
my  kind.  The  wish  of  myCyouth,  to  travel  in  far  coun- 
tries, no  longer  existed  with  me.  I disposed  of  my 
practice — or  rather  I simply  handed  it  over  to  the  first 


DARK  DATS. 


18  DARK  DATS. 

7 

comer.  I left  the  town  of  my  adoption,  and  bonght  a 
small  house — it  was  little  more  than  a cottage — some  five 
miles  away  from  the  tiny  town  of  Roding.  Here  I was 
utterly  unknown,  and  could  live  exactly  as  I chose ; and 
for  months  it  was  my  choice  to  live  almost  like  a hermit. 

My  needs  were  ministered  to  by  a man  who  had  been 
for  some  years  in  my  employment.  He  was  a handy, 
faithful  fellow ; honest  as  the  day,  stolid  as  the  Sphinx ; 
and,  for  some  reason  or  other,  so  much  attached  to  me 
that  he  was  willing  to  perform  on  my  behalf  the  duties 
of  housekeeping  which  are  usually  relegated  to  female 
servants. 

Looking  back  upon  that  time  of  seclusion,  as  a medical 
man,  I wonder  what  would  eventually  have  been  my 
fate  if  events  had  not  occurred  which  once  more  forced 
me  into  the  world  of  men  ? I firmly  believe  that  brooding 
in  solitude  over  my  grief  would  at  last  have  affected  my 
brain ; that  sooner  or  later  I must  have  developed 
symptoms  of  melancholia.  Professionally  speaking,  the 
probabilities  are  I should  have  committed  suicide. 

Even  in  the  depth  of  my  degradation  I must  have 
known  the  dangers  of  the  path  which  I was  treading; 
for,  after  having  passed  six  dreary  months  in  my  lonely 
cottage,  I was  trying  to  brace  myself  to  seek  a change  of 
scene.  I shrank  from  leaving  my  quiet  abode;  but  every 
day  formed  afresh  the  resolve  to  do  so. 

Yet  the  days,  each  the  same  as  its  forerunner,  went 
by,  and  I was  still  there.  I had  books,  of  course.  I read 
for  days  together;  then  I would  throw  the  volumes  aside, 
and,  with  a bitter  smile,  ask  myself  to  what  end  was  I 
directing  my  studies.  The  accumulation  of  knowledge? 
Tush!  I would  give  all  the  learning  I had  acquired,  all 
that  a lifetime  of  research  could  acquire,  to  hold  Philippa 


DARK  DATS. 


19 


for  one  brief  moment  to  my  heart,  and  hear  her  say  she 
loved  me!  If  in  the  whirl  of  men,  in  the  midst  of  hard 
work,  I found  it  impossible  to  conquer  my  hopeless  pas- 
sion,  how  could  I expect  to  do  so  living  as  I at  present 
lived  ? 

There!  my  egotistical  descriptions  are  almost  over. 
Now  you  know  why  I said  that  you  must  sit  by  the  fire 
and  think  with  me;  must  enter,  as  it  were,  into  my 
inner  self  before  you  can  understand  my  mental  state. 
Whether  you  sympathize  with  me  or  not  depends 
entirely  on  your  own  organization.  If  you  are  so  con- 
structed that  the  love  of  one  woman,  and  one  only,  can 
pervade  your  very  being,  fill  your  every  thought,  direct 
your  every  action,  make  life  to  you  a blessing  or  a curse 

jf  love  comes  to  you  in  this  guise,  you  will  be  able  to 

understand  me. 

That  night,  when  I first  presented  myself  to  you,  my 
wounds  seemed  less  likely  than  ever  to  heal ; forgetful- 
ness seemed  farther  and  farther  away.  Somehow,  as  my 
thoughts  took  the  well-worn  road  to  the  past,  every  event 
seemed  recent  as  yesterday,  every  scene  vivid  as  if  I had 
just  left  it.  Hour  after  hour  I sat  gazing  at  the  glowing 
embers,  but  seeing  only  Philippa’s  beloved  face.  How 
had  life  fared  with  her?  Where  was  she  at  this  mo- 
ment? The  resolve  to  quit  my  seclusion  was  made  anew 
by  me.  I would  go  into  the  world  and  find  her — not  for 
any  selfish  motive.  I would  learn  from  her  own  lips 
that  she  was  happy.  If  unhappy,  she  should  have  from 
me  such  comfort  as  the  love  of  a true  friend  can  give. 
Yes,  I would  leave  this  wretched  life  to-morrow.  -My 
cheek  flushed  as  I contrasted  what  I was  with  what  I 
ought  to  be.  No  man  has  a right  to  ruin  his  life  or  hide 
his  talents  for  the  sake  of  a woman. 


20 


DARK  DAYS. 


I bad  another  inducement  which  urged  me  to  make  a 
change  in  my  mode  of  life.  I am  ashamed  that  I have 
not  spoken  of  it.  That  morning  I had  received  a letter 
from  my  mother.  I had  not  seen  her  for  six  years.  Just 
as  I entered  man’s  estate  she  married  for  the  second  time. 
My  stepfather  was  an  American,  and  with  many  tears  my 
mother  left  me  for  her  new  home.  Some  months  ago 
her  husband  died.  I should  have  gone  to  her,  but  she 
forbade  me.  She  had  no  children  by  her  second  hus- 
band; and  now  that  his  affairs  were  practically  wound  up 
she  proposed  returning  to  England.  Her  letter  told  me 
that  she  would  be  in  London  in  three  days’  time,  and 
suggested  that  I should  meet  her  there. 

Although  of  late  years  we  had  drifted  apart,  she  was 
dear,  very  dear  to  me.  I hated  the  thought  of  her  seeing 
me,  her  only  child,  reduced  to  such  a wreck  of  my  former 
self;  yet  for  her  sake  I again  renewed  my  resolve  of 
leaving  my  seclusion. 

Yet  I knew  that  to-morrow  I should  forswear  myself, 
and  sink  back  into  my  apathy  and  aimless  existence. 
Ah!  I knew  not  what  events  were  to  crowd  into  the 
morrow. 

But  now  back  to  the  night.  It  was  mid-winter,  and 
bitterly  cold  out  of  doors.  My  lamp  was  not  yet  lighted ; 
the  glow  of  my  fire  alone  broke  the  darkness  of  the 
room.  I had  not  even  drawn  the  curtains  or  shut  the 
shutters.  At  times  I liked  to  look  out  an(l  see  the  stars. 
They  shone  so  peacefully,  so  calmly,  so  coldly;  they 
seemed  so  unlike  the  world,  with  its  strife  and  fierce 
passions  and  disappointments. 

I rose  languidly  from  my  chair  and  walked  to  the 
window,  to  see  what  sort  of  a night  it  was.  As  I ap„ 
proaclied  the  casement  I could  see  that  the  skies  had 


DARK  DAY8. 


21 


darkened  ; moreover,  1 noticed  that  feathery  flakes  of 
snow  were  accumulating  in  the  corner  of  each  pane.  I 
went  close  to  the  window  and  peered  out  into  the  night. 

Standing  within  a yard  of  me,  gazing  into  my  dimly- 
lit  room — her  face  stern  and  pale  as  death,  her  dark  eyes 
now  riveted  on  my  own — -was  a woman  j and  that  woman 
was  Philippa,  my  love ! 

For  several  seconds  I stood  spellbound,  gazing  at  her. 
That  I saw  more  than  a phantom  of  my  imagination  did 
not  at  once  enter  into  my  head.  In  dreams  I had  seen 
the  one  I loved  again  and  again,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  my  waking  thoughts  had  conjured  up  such  a vision. 
Vision, "dream,  reality  ! I trembled  as  I looked  ; for  the 
form  was  that  of  Philippa  in  dire  distress. 

It  was  seeing  the  hood  which  covered  her  head  grow 
whiter  and  whiter  with  the  fast-falling  snow  which 
aroused  me  to  my  senses,  and  made  every  fibre  thrill 
with  the  thought  that  Philippa,  in  flesh  and  blood,  stood 
before  me.  With  a low  cry  of  rapture  I tore  asunder 
the  fastening  of  the  French  casement,  threw  the  sashes 
apart,  and  without  a word  my  love  passed  from  the  cold, 
bleak  night  into  my  room. 

She  was  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a rich,  dark 
fur-trimmed  cloak.  As  she  swept  by  me  I felt  she  was 
damp  with  partially-thawed  snow.  I closed  the  window; 
then  with  a throbbing  heart  turned  to  greet  my  visitor. 
She  stood  in  the  centre  of  the'  room.  Her  mantle  had 
fallen  to  the  ground,  and,  through  the  dusk  I could  see 
her  white  face,  hands,  and  neck.  I took  her  hands  in 
mine  ; they  were  as  cold  as  icicles. 

“ Philippa ! Philippa!  why  are  you  here?”  I whis- 
pered. “Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  whether  you  bring 
me  joy  or  sorrow.” 


22 


DARK  DATS. 


A trembling  ran  through  her.  She  said  nothing,  but 
her  cold  hands  clasped  mine  closer.  I led  her  to  the  fire, 
which  I stirred  until  it  blazed  brightly.  She  kneeled 
before  it  and  stretched  out  her  hands  for  warmth.  How 
pale  she  looked ; how  unlike  the  Philippa  of  old  1 But 
to  my  eyes  how  lovely ! 

As  I looked  down  at  the  fair  woman  kneeling  at  my 
feet,  with  her  proud  head  bent  as  in  shame,  I knew 
intuitively  that  I should  be  called  upon  to  keep  my  oath ; 
and  knowing  this,  I re-registered  it  in  all  its  entirety. 

At  last  she  raised  her  face  to  mine.  In  her  eyes  was 
a sombre  fire,  which  until  now  I had  never  seen  there. 
“Philippa!  Philippa!”  I cried  again. 

“ Fetch  a light,”  she  whispered.  “ Let  me  see  a friend’s 
face  once  more — if  you  are  still  my  friend.” 

“Your  friend,  your  true  friend  forever,”  I said,  as  I 
hastened  to  obey  her. 

As  I placed  the  lamp  on  the  table  Philippa  rose  from 
her  knees.  I could  now  see  that  she  was  in  deep  mourn- 
ing. Was  the  thought  that  flashed  through  me,  that  it 
might  be  that  she  was  a widow,  one  of  joy  or  sorrow?  I 
hope — I try  to  believe  it  was  the  latter.  • 

We  stood  for  some  moments  in  silence.  My  agitation, 
my  rapture  at  seeing  her  once  more  seemed  to  have  de- 
prived me  of  speech.  I could  do  little  more  than  to  gaze 
at  her  and  tell  myself  that  I was  not  dreaming;  that 
Philippa  was  really  here ; that  it  was  her  voice  that  I had 
heard,  her  hands  I clasped.  Philippa  it  was,  but  not  the 
Philippa  of  old ! 

The  rich,  warm,  glowing  beauty  seemed  toned  down. 
Her  face  had  lost  its  exquisite  color.  Moreover,  it  was 
the  face  of  one  who  has  suffered — one  who  is  suffering. 
To  me  it  looked  as  if  illness  had  refined  it,  as  it  some- 


DARK  DAYS. 


23 


times  will  refine  a face.  Yet,  if  slie  had  been  ill,  her 
illness  could  not  have  been  of  long  duration.  Her  figure 
was  as  superb,  her  arms  as  finely  rounded,  as  ever.  She 
stood  firm  and  erect.  Yet  I trembled  as  I gazed  at  that 
pale  proud  face  and  those  dark  solemn  eyes.  I dared  not 
for  the  while  ask  her  why  she  sought  me. 

She  was  the  first  to  break  silence.  “ You  are  changed, 

Basil,”  she  said. 

“Time  changes  every  one,”  I answered,  forcing  a 
smile. 

« "Will  yon  believe  me,”  she  continued,  “ when  I say 
that  the  memory  of  your  face  as  I saw  it  last  has  haunted 
even  my  most  joyful  moments?  Ah  me!  Basil,  had  I 
been  true  to  myself  I think  I might  have  learned  to 


love  you.” 

She  spoke  regretfully,  and  as  one  who  has  finished 
with  life  and  its  lo  ve.  My  heart  beat  rapidly ; yet  I knew 
her  words  wero  not  spoken  ill  order  to  hear  me  tell  her 
that  X loved  her  passionately  as  ever. 

a I have  heard  of  you  once  or  twice,”  she  said  softly. 
« You  are  rich  now,  they  tell  me,  but  unhappy.” 

“X  loved  you  and  lost  you,”  I answered.  “ How  could 


I be  happy?” 

And  men  can  love  like  this  slie  said  sadly.  Ail 


men  are  not  alike,  then  ?” 

“Enough  of  me,”  I said.  “Tell  me  of  yourself.  Tell 
me  how  I can  aid  you.  Your  husband 

She  drew  a sharp,  (puck  breath.  The  color  rushed  back 
to  her  cheek.  Her  eyes  glittered  strangely.  Neverthe- 
less, she  spoke  calmly  and  distinctly. 

“ Husband  ! I have  none,”  she  said. 


“ Xs  he  dead  ?” 

“No” — she  spoke  with  surprising  bitterness — “No ; I 


24 


DARK  DATS. 


should  rather  say  I never  was  a wife.  Tell  me,  Basil,” 
she  continued  fiercely,  “ did  you  ever  hate  a man?” 

“Yes,”  I answered  emphatically  and  truly.  Hate  a 
man ! From  the  moment  I saw  the  wretch  with  whom 
Philippa  fled  I hated  him.  Now  that  my  worst  suspicions 
were  true,  what  were  my  feelings  ? 

I felt  that  my  lips  compressed  themselves.  I knew 
that  when  I spoke  my  voice  was  as  stern  and  bitter  as 
Philippa’s.  “Sit  down,”  I said,  “and  tell  me  all.  Tell 
me  how  you  knew  I was  here — where  yo*  have  come 
from.” 

Let  me  but  learn  whence  she  came,  and  I felt  sure  the 
knowledge  would  enable  me  to  lay  my  hand  on  the  man 
I wanted.  Ah ! life  now  held  something  worth  living 
for ! 

“ I have  been  here  some  months,”  said  Philippa. 

“ Here ! In  this  neighborhood  ?” 

“ Yes.  1 have  seen  you  several  times.  I have  been 
living  at  a house  about  three  miles  away.  I felt  happier 
in  knowing  that  in  case  of  need  I had  one  friend  near 
me.” 

I pressed  her  hands.  “ Go  on,”  I said  hoarsely. 

“ He  sent  me  here.  He  had  grown  weary  of  me.  I 
was  about  to  have  a child.  I was  in  his  way — a trouble 
to  him.” 

Her  scornful  accent  as  she  spoke  was  indescribable. 

“Philippa!  Philippa!”  I groaned,  “had  you  sunk  so 
low  as  to  do  his  bidding  ?” 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.  “More,”  she  said. 
“ Listen ! Before  we  parted  he  struck  me.  Struck— 
me ! He  cursed  me  and  struck  me ! Basil,  did  you  ever 
hate  a man  ?” 

I threw  out  my  arms.  My  heart  was  full  of  rage  an<? 


25 


DABS  DATS. 

. 

bitterness.  “And  you  became  this  man’s  mistress  rather 
than  my  wife !”  I gasped.  Neither  my  love  nor  her  sor- 
row could  stop  this  one  reproach  from  passing  my  lips. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  “ You !”  she  cried.  “ Do  you 
— think— do  you  imagine — Read!  Only  this  morning 
I learned  it.” 

She  threw  a letter  toward  me — threw  it  with  a gesture 
of  loathing,  as  one  throws  a nauseous  reptile  from  one’s 
hand.  I opened  it  mechanically. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “you  were  right  in  thinking  I had 
fallen  low.  So  low  that  I went  where  he  chose  to  send 
me.  So  low  that  I would  have  forgiven  the  ill-treatment 
of  months — the  blow,  even.  Why  ? Because  until  this 
morning  he  was  my  husband.  Read  the  letter.  Basil, 
did  you  ever  hate  a man  ?” 

Before  I read  I glanced  at  her  in  alarm.  She  spoke 
with  almost  feverish  excitement.  Her  words  followed  one 
another  with  headlong  rapidity.  But  who  could  wonder 
at  this  mood  with  a woman  who  had  such  a wrong  to 
declare  ? She  grew  calm  beneath  my  glance. 

“ Read,”  she  said  beseechingly.  “ Ah,  God ! I have 
fallen  low;  but  not  so  low  as  you  thought.” 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  while  I opened  and 
read  the  letter.  It  was  dated  from  Paris,  and  ran  so : 

“ As  it  6eems  to  me  that  we  can’t  exactly  hit  it  off 
together,  I think  the  farce  had  better  end.  The  simplest 
way  to  make  my  meaning  clear  is  to  tell  you  that  when  I 
married  you  I had  a wife  alive.  She  has  died  since  then ; 
and  I dare  say,  had  we  managed  to  get  on  better  together, 
I should  have  asked  you  to  go  through  the  marriage  cere- 
mony  once  more.  However,  as  things  are  now,  so  they 
had  better  stop.  You  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  morally  you  are  blameless. 


26 


DARK  DATS. 


« If ? like  a sensible  girl,  you  are  ready  to  accept  tW 
situation,  I am  prepared  to  act  generously,  and  do  the 
right  thing  in  money  matters.  As  I hate  to  have  any- 
thing hanging  over  me  unsettled,  and  do  not  caie  to  trust 
delicate  negotiations  to  a third  party,  I shall  run  across 
to  England  and  see  you.  I shall  reach  Eoding  on  Wed- 
nesday evening.  Do  not  send  to  the  station  to  meet  me ; 

I would  rather  walk.” 

The  letter  was  unsigned.  My  blood  boiled  as  I read 
it  • yet,  in  spite  of  my  rage,  I felt  a grim  humor  as  I 
realized  the  exquisite  cynicism  possessed  by  the  writer. 
Here  was  a man  striking  a foul  and  recreant  blow  at  a 
woman  whom  lie  once  loved — a blow  that  must  crush  her 
to  the  earth.  Ilis  own  words  confess  him  a rogue,  a 
bigamist ; and  yet  he  can  speak  coolly  about  money 
arrangements ; can  even  enter  into  petty  details  con- 
cerning his  approaching  visit!  He  must  be  without 
shame,  without  remorse;  a villain,  absolutely  heart- 
less ! 

I folded  the  letter  and  placed  it  in  my  breast.  I wished 
to  keep  it,  that  I might  read  it  again  and  again  during 
the  next  twenty-four  hours.  Long  hours  they  would  be. 
This  letter  would  aid  me  to  make  them  pass.  Philippa 
made  no  objection  to  my  keeping  it.  She  sat  motionless, 
gazing  gloomily  into  the  fire. 

“You  knew  the  man’s  right  name  and  title?”  I asked. 
“ Yes,  from  the  first.  Ah!  there  I wronged  myself, 
Basil!  The  rank,  the  riches,  perhaps  tempted  me;  and 

. — Basil,  1 loved  him  then.” 

Oh,  the  piteous  regret  breathed  in  that  last  sentence ! 
I ground  my  teeth,  and  felt  that  there  was  a stronger 
passion  than  even  love.  “ That  man  and  I meet  to-mor. 
tow,”  I told  myself  softly. 


DARK  DATS. 


“ But  you  spoke  of  a child  ?”  I said,  turning  to  Phi- 
lippa. 

“It  is  dead — dead— dead!”  she  cried,  with  a wild 
laugh.  “ A fortnight  ago  it  died.  Dead ! My  grief 
then;  my  joy  to-day!  See!  I am  in  mourning;  to- 
morrow I shall  put  that  mourning  off.  Why  mourn  for 
what  is  a happy  event  ? No  black  after  to-morrow.” 

Her  mood  had  once  more  become  excited.  As  before, 
her  words  came  with  feverish  rapidity.  I took  her  hands 
in  mine ; they  were  now  burning. 

“Philippa,  dearest,  be  calm.  You  will  see  that  man 
too  more  ?” 

“I  will  see  him  no  more.  It  is  to  save  mvself  from 

•/ 

seeing  him  that  I come  to  you.  Little  right  have  I to 
ask  aid  from  you ; but  your  words  came  back  to  me  in 
my  need.  There  was  one  friend  to  turn  to.  Help  me, 
Basil ! I come  to  you  as  a sister  may  come  to  a brother.” 

“As  a sister  to  a brother,”  I echoed.  “I  accept  the 
trust,”  I added,  laying  my  lips  reverentially  on  her  white 
forehead,  and  vowing  mentally  to  devote  my  life  to  her. 

“ You  will  stay  here  now  ?”  I asked. 

“No,  I must  go  back.  To-morrow  I will  come — to- 
morrow. Basil,  my  brother,  you  will  take  me  far  away 
- — far  away  ?” 

“Where  you  wish.  Every  land  is  one  as  to  me  now.” 

She  had  given  me  the  right,  a brother’s  right,  to  stand 
between  her  and  the  villain  who  had  wronged  her.  To- 
morrow that  man  would  be  here ! How  I longed  for  the 
moment  which  would  bring  us  face  to  face ! 

Philippa  rose.  “ I must  go,”  she  said. 

I pressed  food  and  wine  upon  her : she  would  take 
nothing.  She  made,  however,  no  objection  to  my  ac- 
companying her  to  her  home.  We  left  the  house  by  tli* 


28 


BARK  DAYS. 


casement  by  which  she  entered.  Together  we  stepped 
cut  on  the  snow-whitened  road.  She  took  my  arm,  and 
we  walked  toward  her  home. 

I asked  her  with  whom  she  was  staying.  She  told  me 
with  a widow  lady  and  two  children,  named  Wilson. 
She ^ went  to  them  at  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  command. 
Mrs.  Wilson,  he  told  her,  was  a distant  connection  of  his 
own,  and  he  had  made  arrangements  for  her  to  look  after 
Philippa  during  her  illness. 

It  was  but  another  proof  of  the  man’s  revolting  cyni- 
cism. To  send  the  woman  who  falsely  believed  herself 
to  be  his  wife  to  one  of  his  own  relations  ! Oh,  I would 
have  a full  reckoning  with  him ! 

“ What  name  do  they  know  you  by  ?”  I asked. 

“He  said  I was  to  call  myself  by  the  false  name* 
which,  for  purposes  of  his  own,  he  chose  to  pass  under. 
But  I felt  myself  absolved  from  my  promise  of  secrecy. 
Why  should  I stay  in  a strange  house  with  strange  peo- 
ple by  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  request,  unless  I could  show 
good  cause  for  doing  so?  So  I told  Mrs.  Wilson  every- 
thing.” ^ 

“ She  believed  you  ?” 

“ She  was  bound  to  believe  me.  I would  have  no 
doubt  cast  upon  my  word.  I showed  her  the  certificate 
of  my  marriage.  Whatever  she  may  have  thought  at 
first,  she  saw  then  that  I was  his  wife.  No  one  else 
knows  it  except  her.  To  her  I am  Lady  Ferrand.  Like 
me,  she  never  dreamed  to  what  man’s  villainy  can  reach. 
O Basil ! Basil ! why  are  such  men  allowed  to  live  ?” 

For  the  first  time  Philippa  seemed  to  break  down. 
Till  now  the  chief  characteristics  of  her  mood  had  been 
6Corn  and  anger.  Now,  sheer  grief  for  the  time  appeared 
to  sweep  away  every  other  emotion.  Sob  after  sob  broke 


DARK  DATS. 


29 


from  her.  I endeavored  to  calm  her — to  comfort  her. 
Aias!  how  little  I could  sav  or  do  to  these  ends!  She 

t / 

leaned  heavily  and  despondingly  on  ray  arm,  and  for  a 
long  while  we  walked  in  silence.  At  last  she  told  me  her 
home  was  close  at  hand. 

“ Listen,  Philippa,”  I said  ; “ I shall  come  in  with  you 
and  see  this  lady  with  whom  you  are  staying.  I shall 
tell  her  I am  your  brother;  that  for  some  time  I have 
known  how  shamefully  your  husband  has  neglected  you  ; 
and  that  now,  with  your  full  consent,  I mean  to  take  you 
away.  Whether  this  woman  believes  in  our  relationship 
or  not,  matters  nothing.  I suppose  she  knows  that  man 
is  coming  to-morrow.  After  his  heartless  desertion  she 
cannot  be  surprised  at  your  wish  to  avoid  meeting  him,” 

I paused.  Philippa  bent  her  head  as  if  assenting  to 
my  plan. 

“ To-morrow,”  I continued,  “long  before  that  wretch 
comes  here  to  poison  the-very  air  we  breathe,  I shall 
come  and  fetch  you.  Early  in  the  morning  I will  send 
my  servant  for  your  luggage.  Mrs.  Wilson  may  know 
me  and  my  man  by  sight.  That  makes  no  difference. 
There  need  be  no  concealment.  You  are  free  to  come 
and  go.  You  have  no  one  to  fear.  On  Thursday  morn- 
ing we  will  leave  this  place.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Philippa  dreamily,  “ to-morrow  I will 
leave— I will  come  to  you.  But  I will  come  alone.  In 
the  evening  most  likely,  when  no  one  will  know  where  I 
have  gone.” 

“ But  how  much  better  that  I should  take  you  away 
openly  and  in  broad  daylight,  as  a brother  would  take  a 
sister !” 

“No;  I will  come  to  you.  You  will  not  mind  wait- 
ing, Basil.  There  is  something  I must  do  first.  Some- 


30 


DARK  DAYS. 


tiling  to  be  done  to-morrow.  Something  to  be  said ; 
4ome  one  to  be  seen.  * What  is  it  ? who  is  it?  I cannot 
recollect.” 

She  placed  her  disengaged  hand  on  her  brow.  She 
pushed  back  her  head  a little,  and  gave  a sigli  of  relief 
as  she  felt  the  keen  air  on  her  temples.  Poor  girl ! after 
what  she  had  that  day  gone  through,  no  wonder  her  mind 
refused  to  recall  trivial  details  and  petty  arrangements  to 
be  made  before  she  joined  me.  Sleep  and  the  certainty 
of  my  sympathy  and  protection  would  no  doubt  restore 
her  wandering  memory. 

However,  although  I again  and  again  urged  her  to 
change  her  mind,  she  was  firm  in  her  resolve  to  come  to 
me  alone.  At  last,  very  reluctantly,  I was  obliged  to 
give  way  on  this  point ; but  I was  determined  to  see  this 
Mrs.  Wilson  to-night;  so  when  we  reached  the  house  I 
entered  with  Philippa. 

I told  her  there  was  no  occasion  for  her  to  be  present 
at  my  interview  with  the  hostess.  She  looked  fright- 
fully weary,  and  at  my  suggestion  went  straight  to  her 
room  to  retire  for  the  night.  I sat  down  and  awaited  the 
the  advent  of  Mrs.  Wilson.  She  soon  appeared. 

A woman  of  about  five-and-thirty ; well  but  plainly 
dressed.  As  I glanced  at  her  with  some  curiosity,  I de- 
cided that  when  young  she  must,  after  a certain  type  of 
beauty,  have  been  extremely  good-looking.  Unfortunate- 
ly hers  was  one  of  those  faces  cast  in  an  aquiline  mould — 
faces  which,  as  soon  as  the  bloom  of  youth  is  lost  or  the 
owners  thereof  turn  to  thinness,  become,  as  a rule,  sharp, 
strained,  hungry,  and  severe-looking.  Whatever  the 
woman’s  charms  might  once  have  been,  she  could  now 
boast  of  very  few. 

There  were  lines  around  her  mouth  and  on  her  brow 


DARK  DATS. 


§1 

which  told  of  Buffering ; and,  as  I judged  it,  not  the  calm, 
resigned  suffering,  which  often  leaves  a sweet  if  sad  ex- 
pression on  the  face ; but  fierce,  rebellious,  constrained 
suffering,  such  as  turns  a young  heart  into  an  old  one 
long  before  its  time. 

As  she  entered  the  room  and  bowed  to  me  her  face  ex- 
pressed undisguised  surprise  at  seeing  a visitor  who  was  a 
stranger  to  her.  I apologized  for  the  lateness  of  my  call ; 
then  hastened  to  tell  her  its  object.  She  listened  with 
polite  impassibility.  She  made  no  comment  when  I re- 
peatedly spoke  of  my  so-styled  sister  as  Lady  Ferrand. 
It  was  clear  that,  as  Philippa  had  said,  Mrs.  Wilson  was 
convinced  as  to  the  valid  nature  of  the  marriage.  I in- 
veighed roundly  against  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  heartless 
conduct,  and  scandalous  neglect  of  his  wife.  My  hearer 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  the  meaning  conveyed  by  the 
action  was  that,  although  she  regretted  family  jars,  they 
were  no  concern  of  hers.  She  seemed  quite  without 
interest  in  the  matter;  yet  a suspicion  that  she  was  act- 
ing, indeed  rather  over-acting,  a part,  crossed  my  mind 
once  or  twice. 

When  I told  her  it  was  Lady  Ferrand’s  intention  to 
place  herself  to-morrow  under  my  protection,  she  simply 
bowed.  When  I said  that  most  likely  we  should  leave 
England,  and  for  a while  travel  on  the  continent,  she  said 
that  my  sister’s  health  would  no  doubt  be  much  benefited 
by  the  change. 

u I may  mention,”  she  added,  for  the  first  time  taking 
any  real  part  in  the  talk,  “ that  your  sister’s  state  is  not 
quite  all  it  should  be.  For  the  last  day  or  two  I have 
been  thinking  of  sending  for  the  medical  man  who  at- 
tended her  during  her  unfortunate  confinement.  He  has 
sot  s«eu  her  for  quite  a week.  I mentioned  it  to  her  this 


8?  DABS  DATS. 

afternoon ; but  she  appears  to  have  taken  an  unaccount- 
able dislike  to  him,  and  utterly  refused  to  see  him.  I do 
not  wish  to  alarm  you — I merely  mention  this ; no  doubt 
you,  her  brother,  will  see  to  it.” 

The  peculiar  stress  she  laid  on  the  word  “brother” 
told  me  that  I was  right  in  thinking  the  woman  was  act- 
ing, and  that  not  for  one  moment  did  my  assumed  frater- 
nity deceive  her.  This  was  of  no  consequence. 

“ I am  myself  a doctor.  Her  health  will  be  my  care,” 
I said.  Then  I rose. 

“You  are  related  to  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand,  I believe, 
Mrs.  Wilson?”  I asked. 

She  gave  me  a quick  look  which  might  mean  anything. 
^We  are  connections,”  she  said  carelessly. 

“ You  must  have  been  surprised  at  his  sending  his  wife 
away  at  such  a time  ?” 

“ I am  not  in  the  habit  of  feeling  surprised  at  Sir  Mer- 
vyn’s  actions.  He  wrote  to  me  and  told  me  that,  know- 
ing my  circumstances  were  straitened,  he  had  recom- 
mended a lady  to  come  and  live  with  me  for  a few 
months.  When  I found  this  lady  was  his  wife,  I own  I 
was,  for  once,  surprised.” 

From  the  emphasis  which  she  laid  on  certain  words,  I 
knew  it  was  blit  the  fact  of  Philippa’s  being  married  to 
the  scoundrel  that  surprised  her,  nothing  else.  I could 
see  that  Mrs.  Wilson  knew  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  thorough- 
ly, and  something  told  me  that  her  relations  with  him 
were  of  a nature  which  might  not  bear  investigation. 

I bade  her  good-night,  and  walked  back  to  my  cottage 
with  a heart  in  which  sorrow,  pity,  love,  hatred,  exulta- 
tion, and,  it  may  be,  hope,  were  strangely  and  inextrica- 
bly mingled. 


dark  days. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

kTHE  "WAGES  OF  8IN.” 

MORNING ! No  books ; no  idle,  listless  hours  for 
me  to-day.  Plenty  to  do,  plenty  to  think  about; 
all  sorts  of  arrangements  to  make.  Farewell  to  my 
moody,  sullen  life.  Farewell  to  my  aimless,  selfish  ex- 
istence. Henceforward  I should  have  something  worth 
living  for— worth  dying  for,  if  needs  be  t Philippa  was 
coming  to  me  to-day ; coming  in  grief,  it  is  true ; coming 
as  a sister  comes  to  a brother.  Ah!  after  all  the  weaiy, 
weary  waiting,  I shall  see  her  to-day— to-morrow,  every 
day ! If  a man’s  devotion,  homage,  worship,  and  respect 
can  in  her  own  eyes  reinstate  my  queen,  I shall  some 
day  see  the  bloom  come  back  to  her  cheek,  the  blight 
smile  play  once  more  round  her  mouth,  the  dark  eyes 
again  eloquent  with  happy  thoughts.  And  then— and 
then!  what  should  I care  for  the  world  or  its  sneers  1 
To  whom,  save  myself,  should  I be  answerable  1 Then  I 
might  whisper  in  her  ear,  “ Sweet,  let  the  past  vanish 
from  our  lives  as  a dream.  Let  happiness  date  from  to- 
day.” , 

Although  Philippa  would  grace  my  poor  cottage  tor 
one  night  only,  I had  a thousand  preparations  to  make 
for  her  comfort.  Fortunately  I had  a spare  room,  and, 
moreover,  a furnished  one.  Not  that  I should  have 
troubled,  when  I went  into  my  seclusion,  about  such  a 
superfluity  as  a guest-chamber  j but  as  it  happened  I had 


34  _ DARK  DATS. 

bonglit  the  house  and  the  furniture  complete,  so  could 
offer  my  welcome  guest  fair  accommodation  for  the 
night. 

I summoned  my  stolid  man.  I told  him  that  my  sister 
was  coming  on  a visit  to  me ; that  she  would  sleep  here 
to-night,  but  that  most  likely  we  should  go  away  to-mor- 
row.  He  could  stay  and  look  after  the  house  until  1 
returned  or  sent  him  instructions  what  to  do  with  it. 
William  manifested  no  surprise.  Had  I told  him  to 
make  preparations  for  the  coming  of  my  wife  and  five 
children,  he  would  have  considered  it  all  a part  of  the 
day’s  work,  and  would  have  done  his  best  to  meet  my 
requirements. 

He  set  to  work  in  his  imperturbable,  methodical,  but 
bandy  way  to  get  Philippa’s  room  in  trim.  As  soon  as 
this  was  done,  and  the  neglected  chamber  made  cosey  and 
warm-looking,  I told  him  to  borrow  a horse  and  cart 
somewhere,  and  fetch  the  luggage  from  Mrs.  Wilson’s. 
He  was  to  mention  no  names ; simply  to  say  that  he  had 
come  for  the  luggage,  and  to  ask  if  the  ladyjiad  any 
message  to  send. 

Then  I sat  down  in  the  room  which  my  love  would 
occupy,  and  mused  upon  the  strange  but  unhappy  chance 
which  was  bringing  her  beneath  my  roof.  I wished  that 
I had  an  enchanter’s  wand  to  turn  the  humble  garniture 
of  the  chamber  into  surroundings  meet  for  my  queenly 
Philippa.  I wished  that  I had,  at  least,  flowers  with 
which  I could  deck  her  resting-place ; for  I remembered 
how  passionately  she  loved  flowers.  Alas!  I had  not 
seen  a flower  for  months. 

Then  I drew  out  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  letter,  read  it 
again  and  again,  and  cursed  the  writer  in  my  heart. 

William  was  away  about  two  hours;  then  he  made 


BARK  DAYS.  35 

his  appearance  with  some  boxes.  * I was  delighted  to  see 
these  tangible  signs  that  Philippa  meant  to  keep  lief 
promise.  Till  that  moment  I had  been  troubled  by 
something  like  the  doubt,  that  after  all  she  might,  upon 
calm  reflection,  rescind  the  resolution  formed  in  her  .ex- 
citement. Now  her  coming  seemed  to  be  a certainty. 

Nevertheless,  William  brought  no  message;  so  there 
was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  wait  patiently  until  she 
chose  to  cross  my  threshold. 

Although  Any  pleasing  labors  of  love  were  ended,  I 
was  not  left  idle.  There  was  another  task  to  be  done  to- 
day, I set  my  teeth  and  sat  down,  thinking  quietly  as 
to  the  way  in  which  it  might  be  best  performed.  To- 
night I meant  to  stand  face  to  face  with  that  black- 
hearted scoundrel  known  as  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand ! 

I consulted  the  time-table.  His  letter  named  no  par- 
ticular hour;  but  I saw  that  if  he  carried  out  his  ex- 
pressed intention  of  being  here  to-night,  there  was  but 
one  train  by  which  he  could  come;  there  was  but  one 
way  from  Roding  to  the  house  at  which  Philippa  had 
been  staying.  He  meant  to  walk,  his  letter  said ; this 
might  be  in  order  to.  escape  observation.  The  train  was 
due  at  Eoding  at  seven  o’clock.  The  weather  wras  cold  ; 
A man  would  naturally  wralk  fast.  Mrs.  Wilson’s  house 
must  be  four  miles  from  the  station.  Let  me  start  from 
there  just  before  the  train  arrives,  and  I should  probably 
meet  him  about  half-way  on  his  journey.  It  would  be 
dark,  but  I should  know  him*  I should  know  him 
among  a thousand.  There  on  the  open  lonely  road  Sir 
Mervyn  Ferrand,  coming  gayly,  and  in  his  worldly 
cynicism  certain  of  cajoling,  buying  off,  or  in  some  other 
way  silencing  the  woman  who  had  in  an  evil  day  trusted 
to  his  honor  and  love,  would  meet,  not  her,  but  the  ina & 


36 


DABK  DATS. 


who  from  the  first  had -sworn  that  a wrong  to  Philippa 
should  be  more  than  a wrong  to  himself!  He  would 
meet  this  man,  and  be  called  to  account. 

Stern  and  sinister  as  were  my  thoughts — freely  and 
unreservedly  as  I record  them : as  indeed  I endeavor  in 
this  tale  to  record  everything — I do  not  wish  to  be  mis- 
judged. It  is  true  that  in  iny  present  mood  I was  bent 
upon  avenging  Philippa  with  my  own  hand  ; true  that  I 
meant,  if  possible,  to  take  at  some  time  or  another  this 
man’s  life;  but  at  least  no  thought  of  taking  any  ad- 
vantage of  an  unarmed  or  unsuspecting  man  entered  into 
my  scheme  of  vengeance.  I designed  no  murderous  at- 
tack. But  it  was  my  intention  to  stop  the  man  on  his 
path ; to  confront  him  and  tell  him  that  his  villany  was 
known  to  me  ; that  Philippa  had  fled  to  me  for  aid  ; that 
she  was  now  in  my  custody ; and  that  I,  who  stood  in  the 
position  of  her  brother,  demanded  the  so-called  satisfac- 
tion which,  by  the  old-fashioned  code  of  honor,  was  due 
from  the  man  who  had  ruthlessly  betrayed  a woman. 
Well  I knew  that  it  was  probable  he  would  laugh  at  me 
— tell  me  that  the  days  of  duelling  were  over,  and  refuse 
to  grant  my  request.  Then  I meant  to  see  if  insults 
could  warm  his  noble  blood ; if  my  hand  on  his  cheek 
could  bring  about  the  result  which  I desired.  If  this 
failed,  I would  follow  him  abroad,  cane  him  and  spit 
upon  him  in  public  places. 

A wild  scheme  for  these  prosaic  law-abiding  days ; yet 
the  only  one  that  was  feasible.  It  may  be  said  that  I 
should  have  taken  steps  to  have  caused  the  miscreant  to 
be  arrested  for  bigamy.  But  what  proof  of  his  crime 
had  we  as  yet,  save  his  own  unsigned  confession  ? Who 
was  to  move  in  the  matter — Philippa — myself  ? We  did 
not  eyeo  know  where  this  wife  of  whom  he  had  spoken 


DARK  DATS. 


37 


Bred,  or  where  she  died.  There  were  a hundred  ways 
in  which  he  might  escape  from  justice,  but  whether  he 
was  punished  for  his  sin  or  allowed  to  go  scot-free, 
Philippa’s  name  and  wrongs  must  be  bruited  about,  her 
shame  made  public.  No ; there  was  but  one  course  to 
take,  and  but  one  person  to  take  it.  It  rested  with  me 
to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  the  woman  I loved  by  the  good 
old-fashioned  way  of  a life  against  a life. 

Truly,  as  I said,  I had  now  plenty  to  live  for ! 

The  hours  went  by,  yet  Philippa  came  not.  I grew 
restless  and  uneasy  as  the  dusk  began  to  make  the  road, 
up  which  I gazed  almost  continually,  dim  and  indistinct. 
When  the  short  winter’s  day  was  over,  and  the  long  dark 
night  had  fairly  begun,  my  restlessness  turned  into  fear.  I 
walked  out  of  my  house  and  paced  my  garden  to  and  fro. 
I blamed  myself  for  having  yielded  so  lightly  to  Philippa’s 
wish — -her  command  rather — that  I should  on  no  account 
fetch  her.  But  then,  whenever  did  I resist  a wish,  much 
less  a command  of  hers  ? Oh,  that  I had  been  firm  this 
once ! 

The  snow-storm  of  the  previous  evening  had  not  lasted 
long — not  long  enough  to  thoroughly  whiten  the  world. 
The  day  had  been  fine  and  frosty,  but  I knew  that  the 
wind  had  changed  since  the  sun  went  down.  It  was 
warmer,  a change  which  I felt  sure  presaged  a heavy 
downfall  of  snow  or  rain.  There  was  a moon,  a fitful 
moon ; for  clouds  were  flying  across  it,  dark  clouds, 
which  I guessed  would  soon  gather  coherence  and  volume, 
and  veil  entirely  that  bright  face,  which  now  only  showed 
itself  at  irregular  intervals. 

The  minutes  were  passing  away.  I grew  nervous  and 
excited.  Why  does  she  not  come  ? My  hope  had  been 
to  see  my  poor  girl  safely  housed  before  I started  to  exe-> 


38  DA  UK  DAYS. 

cute  my  other  task.  Why  does  she  not  come  ? Time, 
precious  time,  is  slipping  by ! In  the  hope  of  meeting 
her,  I walked  for  some  distance  up  the  road.  “Why 
does  she  delay  ?”  I groaned.  Even  now  I should  be  on 
my  way  to  Boding,  or  I may  miss  my  prey.  Heavens  ! 
can  it  be  that  she  is  waiting  to  see  this  man  once  more  i 
Never ! never ! Perish  the  thought ! 

But,  all  the  same,  every  fibre  in  my  body  quivered  at 
the  bare  supposition  of  such  a thing. 

I could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  For  the  hun- 
dredth time  I glanced  at  my  watch.  It  wanted  but  ten 
minutes  to  seven  o’clock,  and  at  that  hour  I had  resolved 
to  start  from  Mrs.  Wilson’s,  on  my  way  to  Boding.  Yet 
now  I dared  not  leave  my  own  house.  Any  moment 
might  bring  Philippa.  What  would  she  think  if  I were 
not  there  to  receive  and  welcome  her. 

Five  more  precious  moments  gone ! I stamped  in  my 
rage.  After  all,  I can  only  do  one  half  of  my  task ; the 
sweet,  but  not  the  stern  half.  Shall  I, indeed,  do  either? 
The  train  must  now  be  close  to  Boding.  In  an  hour 
everything  may  be  lost.  The  man  will  see  her  before 
she  leaves  the  house.  He  will  persuade  her.  She  will 
listen  to  his  words ; for  did  he  not  once  love  her  ? He 
must  have  loved  her ! After  all,  he  broke  the  laws  for 
the  sake  of  possessing  her,  and — cursed  thought! — she 
loved  him  then  ; and  she  is  but  a woman  ! 

So  I tortured  myself  until  my  state  of  mind  grew  un- 
bearable. At  all  hazard,  I must  prevent  Ferrand  from 
meeting  Philippa.  Oh,  why  had  she  not  come  as  she 
promised?  Oould  it  be  she  was  detained  against  her 
will  ? In  spite  of  her  uninterested  manner,  I distrusted 
the  woman  I had  seen  last  night.  It  is  now  past  seven 
o’clock,  Philippa’s  house,  from  which  I had  reckoned 


DARK  DATS. 


39 

my  time,  was  nearly  three  miles  away.  I must  give  up 
my  scheme  of  vengeance.  I must  go  in  search  of  Phi- 
lippa. If  I do  not  meet  her  I must  call  at  Mrs.  Wilson’s, 
find  out  what  detains  her,  and  if  needful  bear  her  away 
by  force. 

By  this  time  my  steps  had  brought  me  back  to  my 
own  house.  I called  William,  and  told  him  I was  go- 
ing to  walk  up  the  road  and  meet  my  expected  guest, 
If°by  any  chance  I should  miss  her,  he  was  to  welcome 
her  on  my  behalf,  and  tell  her  the  reason  for  my  absence. 

“Best  take  a lantern,  sir,”  said  William;  “moon’ll 
soon  be  hidden,  and  them  roads  is  precious  rough.” . 

“ I can’t  be  bothered  with  that  great  horn  affair,”  I 
said,  rather  testily. 

“ Take  the  little  one — the  bull’s-eye — that’s  better  than 
nothing,”  said  William.  To  humor  him  I put  it  into  my 
pocket. 

I ran  at  the  top  of  my  speed  to  the  house  at  which 
I had  last  night  left  Philippa.  It  took  me  nearly  half 
an  hour  getting  there.  I rang  the  bell  impetuously. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a maid-servant.  I inquired  for 
Mrs.  Farmer,  knowing  that  Philippa  had  passed  under 
this  name  to  all  except  her  hostess.  To  my  surprise  I was 
told  that  she  had  left  the  house,  on  foot  and  alone,  some 
little  while  ago.  The  maid  believed  she  was  not  going 
to  return,  as  her  luggage  had  that  morning  been  sent  for. 

The  first  effect  of  this  intelligence  was  to  cause  me  to 
blame  my  haste.  I must  have  missed  her;  no  doubt 
passed  her  on  the  road.  No ; such  a thing  was  impossi- 
ble. The  way  was  a narrow  one.  The  moon  still  gave 
some  light.  If  I had  met  Philippa,  I must  have  seen 
her.  She  must  have  seen  me,  and  would  then  have 
stopped  me.  She  could  not  have  gone  the  way  I came. 


40 


DARK  DAYS. 


But  where  was  she  ? In  what  direction  was  I to  seek 
her  ? Argue  the  matter  as  I would — loth  as  I was  to  al- 
low myself  to  be  convinced,  I was  bound  to  decide  that 
she  must  have  taken  the  path  to  Boding.  There  was  no 
other.  She  had  gone,  even  as  I was  going,  to  meet  Fer- 
rand.  She  may  have  started  intending  to  come  to  me ; 
but  at  the  last  moment  a desire  to  see  the  man  once  more 
t— I fondly  hoped  for  the  purpose  of  heaping  reproaches 
on  his  head— had  mastered  her.  Yes,  whatever  her  ob- 
ject might  be,  she  had  gone  to  meet  him.  And  my  heart 
sank  as  conviction  was  carried  to  it  by  the  remembrance 
that  coupled  with  her  refusal  to  permit  me  to  fetch  her 
was  an  assertion  that  she  had  something  to  do  before  she 
came  to  me.  That,  as  I now  read  it,  could  be  but  one 
thing — to  meet  this  man ! 

Never  again,  if  I can  help  it,  shall  liis  voice  strike  on 
her  ear!  Never  again  shall  their  eyes  meet!  Never 
again  shall  the  touch  of  even  his  finger  contaminate  her ! 
Let  me  follow,  and  stand  between  her  and  the  scoundrel. 
If  they  meet  he  will  wound  her  to  the  heart.  Her  pride 
will  rise ; she  will  threaten.  Then  the  coward  will  try 
another  line.  lie  will  plead  for  mercy ; he  will  swear 
he  still  loves  her  ; he  will  bait  his  hook  with  promises. 
She  will  listen  ; hesitate ; perhaps  yield,  and  find  herself 
once  more  deceived.  Then  she  will  be  lost  to  me  for- 
ever. Now  she  is,  in  my  eyes,  pure  as  when  first  we 
met.  Let  me  haste  on,  overtake,  pass  her;  meet  her 
betrayer,  and,  if  needful,  strike  him  to  the  ground. 

As  I turned  from  the  house  I became  aware  that  a 
great  and  sudden  change  had  come  over  the  night.  It 
seemed  to  me  that,  even  in  the  few  minutes  which  I had 
spent  in  considering  what  to  do,  the  heavy  clouds  had 
banked  and  massed  together.  It  was  all  but  pitch-dark  j 


DARK  DATS. 


41 


so  dark  that  I paused,  and  drawing  from  my  pocket  the 
lantern  with  which  William’s  foresight  had  provided  me, 
managed  after  several  trials  to  light  it.  Then,  impatient 
at  the  delay,  I sped  up  the  road. 

I was  now  almost  facing  the  wind.  All  at  once,  sharp 
and  quick,  I felt  the  blinding  snow  on  my  face.  The 
wind  moaned  through  the  leafless  branches  on  either  side 
of  the  road.  The  snow-flakes  whirled  madly  here  and 
there.  Even  in  my  excitement  I was  able  to  realize  the 
fact  that  never  before  had  I seen  in  England  so  fierce  a 
snow-storm,  or  one  which  came  on  so  suddenly.  And, 
like  myself,  Philippa  was  abroad,  and  exposed  to  its  full 
fury.  Heavens!  she  might  lose  her  way,  and  wander 
about  all  night. 

This  fear  quickened  my  steps.  I forced  my  way  on 
through  the  mad  storm.  For  the  time  all  thought  of  Sir 
Mervyn  Ferrand  and  vengeance  left  my  heart.  All  I 
now  wanted  was  to  find  Philippa ; to  lead  her  home,  and 
see  her  safe  beneath  my  roof.  “ Surely,”  I said,  as  I bat- 
tled along,  “ she  cannot  have  gone  much  farther.” 

I kept  a sharp  lookout — if,  indeed,  it  can  be  called  a 
lookout;  for  the  whirling  snow  made  everything,  save 
what  was  within  a few  feet  of  me,  invisible.  I strained 
my  ears  to  catch  the  faintest  cry  or  other  sound.  I went 
on,  flashing  my  lantern  first  on  one  and  then  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  My  dread  was  that  Philippa,  utterly 
unable  to  fight  against  the  white  tempest,  might  be 
crouching  under  one  of  the  banks,  and  if  so  I might  pass 
without  seeing  her  or  even  attracting  her  attention.  My 
doing  so  on  such  a night  as  this  might  mean  her  death. 

Oli,  why  had  she  not  come  as  promised  ? Why  had 
she  gone  to  meet  the  man  who  had  so  foully  wronged 
her?  After  what  had  happened,  she  could  not,  dared 


42 


DARK  DAYS. 


not  love  liim.  And  for  a dreary  comfort  T recalled  the 
litter  bitterness  of  her  accent  last  night  when  she  turned 
to  me  and  said,  “ Basil,  did  you  ever  hate  a man  2”  No, 
she  could  not  love  him  1 

These  thoughts  brought  my  craving  for  vengeance 
back  to  my  mind.  Where  was  Ferrand  ? By  all  my  cal- 
culations, taking  into  account  the  time  wasted  at  starting, 
I should  by  now  have  met  him.  Perhaps  he  had  not 
come,  after  all.  Perhaps  the  look  of  the  weather  had 
frightened  him,  and  he  had  decided  to  stay  at  Roding  for 
the  night.  I raged  at  the  thought  \ If  only  I knew  that 
Philippa  was  safely  housed,  nothing,  in  my  present  frame 
of  mind,  would  have  suited  me  better  than  to  have  met 
him  on  this  lonely  road,  in  the  midst  of  this  wild  storm. 
If  Philippa  were  only  safe  ! 

Still  no  sign  of  her.  I began  to  waver  in  my  mind. 
What  if  my  first  supposition,  that  I had  passed  her  on 
the  road,  was  correct  ? She  might  be  now  at  my  cottage, 
wondering  what  had  become  of  me.  Should  I go  farther 
or  turn  back?  But  what  would  be  my  feelings  if  I did 
the  latter,  and  found  when  I arrived  home  that  she  had 
not  made  her  appearance  ? 

I halted,  irresolute,  in  the  centre  of  the  road.  Instinc- 
tively I beat  my  hands  together  to  promote  circulation. 
I had  left  my  home  hurriedly,  and  had  made  no  provi- 
sion for  the  undergoing  of  such  an  ordeal  as  this  terrible, 
unprecedented  snow-storm  inflicted.  In  spite  of  the 
speed  at  which  I had  travelled,  my  hands  and  feet  were 
growing  numbed,  my  face  smarted  with  the  cold. 
Heaven  help  me  to  decide  aright,  whether  to  go  on  or 
turn  back ! 

The  decision  was  not  left  to  me.  Suddenly,  close  at 
hand,  I heard  a wild  peal,  a scream  of  laughter  which 


DARK  DATS. 


43 


made  my  blood  run  cold.  Swift  from  tlie  whirling,  toss- 
i„ay  drifting  snow  emerged  a tall  gray  figure  It  swept 
past  me  like  tlie  wind ; but  as  it  passed  me  I knew  that 
1Uy  quest  was  ended-tliat  Philippa  was  found  ! ^ 

"She  vanished  in  a second,  before  the  terror  which 
rooted  me  to  the  spot  had  passed  away.  Then  I turned 
and,  fast  as  I could  ran,  followed  her,  crying  as  I went, 

“Philippa!  Philippa!”  ......  T 

I soon  overtook  her  ; but  so  dark  was  the  night  that  1 
was  almost  touching  her  before  I saw  her  shadowy,  ghost- 
like  form.  I threw  my  arms  round  her  and  held  her. 

She  struggled  violently  in  my  grasp. 

« Philippa,  dearest ! it  is  I,  Basil,”  I said,  bending  close 

to  her  ear.  T , . , 

The  sound  of  my  voice  seemed  to  calm  her,  or  1 siiou  a 

rather  say  she  ceased  to  struggle. 

“ Thank  Heaven,  I have  found  you !”  I said.  “ Let  ns 

get  back  as  soon  as  possible.” 

“Back!  No!  Go  on,  go  on  l”  she  exclaimed.  On, 
on,  on,  up  the  road  yet  awhile — on  through  the  storm, 
through  the  snow— on  till  you  see  what  I have  left  behind 
me ! On  till  you  see  the  wages  of  sin— the  wages  of  sin  ! 

Her  words  came  like  bullets  from  a mitrailleuse. 
Through  the  night  I could  see  her  face  gleaming  whiter 
than  the  6iiow  on  her  hood.  I could  see  her  great,  fixed, 
dark  eyes  full  of  nameless  horror. 

“Dearest,  be  calm,”  I said,  and  strove  to  take  her 

hands  in  mine. 

As  I tried  to  gain  possession  of  her  right  hand  some- 
thing fell  from  it,  and,  although  the  road  was  now  coated 
with3 snow,  a metallic  sound  rang  out  as  it  touched  the 
ground.  Mechanically  I stooped  and  picked  up  the 
fallen  object. 


44 


DARK  DAYS. 


As  I did  so  Philippa  with  a wild  cry  wrested  herself 
from  the  one  hand  whose  numbed  grasp  still  sought  to 
retain  her,  and  with  a frenzied  reiteration  of  the  words, 
“ The  wages  of  sin  1”  fled  from  me,  and  was  lost  in  the 
night. 

Even  as  I rushed  in  pursuit  I shuddered  as  the  sense 
of  feeling  told  me  what  thing  it  was  I had  picked  up 
from  the  snowy  ground.  It  was  a small  pistol ! Cold 
as  the  touch  of  the  metal  must  have  been,  it  seemed  to . 
burn  me  like  a coal  of  fire.  Impulsively,  thoughtlessly, 
as  I ran  I hurled  the  weapon  from  me,,  far,  far  away. 
Why  should  it  have  been  in  Philippa’s  hand  this  night? 

I ran  madly  on,  but  not  for  long.  My  foot  caught  in 
a stone,  and  I fell,  half  stunned  and  quite  breathless,  to 
the  ground.  It  was  some  minutes  before  I recovered 
myself  sufficiently  to  once  more  stand  erect.  Philippa 
must  have  obtained  a start  which,  coupled  with  her 
frenzied  speed,  almost  precluded  the  possibility  of  my 
overtaking  her. 

Moreover,  a strange,  uncontrollable  impulse  swayed 
me.  The  touch  of  that  deadly  weapon  still  burned  my 
hand.  Philippa’s  words  still  rang  in  my  ears.  “ On,  on, 
on,  up  the  road  yet  awhile  !”  she  had  cried.  What  did 
she  mean  ? What  had  been  done  to-night  ? 

I must  retrace  my  steps.  I must  see  ! I must  know ! 
Philippa  is  flying  through  the  cold,  dark,  deadly  night ; 
but  her  frame  is  but  the  frame  of  a woman.  She  must 
soon  grow  exhausted,  perhaps  sink  senseless  on  the  road. 
[Nevertheless,  the  dreadful  fears  which  are  growing  in 
my  mind  must  be  set  at  rest ; then  I can  resume  the  pur- 
suit. At  all  cost  I must  know  what  has  happened  1 

Once  more  I turned  and  faced  the  storm.  Heavens  ! 
anything  might  happen  on  such  a higlit  as  this  1 I went 


DABK  DATS.  40 

on  and  on,  flashing  my  lantern  as  I went  on  the  centre 
and  each  side  of  the  road.  I went  some  distance  past 
that  spot  where  I judged  that  Philippa  had  swept  by  me. 
Then  suddenly,  with  a cry  of  horror,  I stopped  short. 
At  my  very  feet,  in  the  middle  of  the  highway,  illumined 
by  the  disk  of  light  cast  by  my  lantern,  lay  a whitened 
mass,  and  as  my  eye  fell  upon  it  I knew  only  too  well  the 
meaning  of  Philippa’s  wild  exclamation,  “The  wages  of 
sin  l The  wages  of  sin  l” 


bark  bays. 


46 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AT  ALL  COST,  SLEEP ! 

T)EAD!  Before  I kneeled  beside  lnm,  and,  after  nn, 
buttomng  bis  coat,  laid  my  hand  on  his  breast,  I 
knew  the  man  was  dead.  Before  I turned  the  lantern 
on  his  white  face  T knew  who  the  man  was.  Sir  Mer- 
vjn  Ferrand  had  paid  for  his  sin  with  his  life  1 It 
needed  little  professional  skill  to  determine  the  cause  of 
bis  death.  A bullet  fired,  it  seemed  to  me,  at  close 
quarters  had  passed  absolutely  through  the  heart.  He 
must  have  fallen  without  a moan.  Killed,  I knew  by 
the  hand  of  the  woman  he  had  wronged.  ’ 

A sneering  smile  yet  lingered  on  his  set  features.  I 
could  even  imagine  the  words  which  had  accompanied  it 
w len  swift  and  sudden,  without  one  moment’s  grace  for 
repentance  or  confession,  death  had  been  meted  out  to 
11m.  . At  one  moment  he  stood  erect  and  full  of  life 
mocking,  it  may  be,  her  who  had  trusted  him  and  had’ 
been  betrayed ; at  the  next,  before  the  sentence  he  was 
speaking  was  completed,  he  lay  lifeless  at  her  feet,  with 
the  snow-flakes  beginning  to  form  his  winding-sheet! 

Oh,  it  was  vengeance  ! swift,  deadly  vengeance ! But 
why,  oil,  why  had  she  wreaked  it?  Philippa,  my  peer, 

i i,Ll  1P?a,  a mUrderess  ! 01b  it  was  too  fearful,  too 

horrible  ! I must  be  dreaming.  All  my  own  thoughts 

ef  tevenge  left  me.  It  was  for  the  time  pity,  sheer  pity. 


DARK  DATS. 


4? 


I felt  for  tlie  man,  cut to  and  picture 
I knew  ho  was  ahve  I coul loo*  I°‘  » > kiU 

40  minute  when  « ^ no 

aching  Deahi  Sir  Men 

Tjn  Ferrand  dead,  and  slain  by  Philippa  ■ 

Ti.  i a Tint-  he  true ! It  should  not  be  true . x et 

“d  as 

gave  a ToVm-y  of  anguish  as  I 

hurled  from  me  the  pistol  she  had  let  fall  J 

weapon  which  had  done  the  dreadful  deed.  _ 

Killed  by  Philippa!  Not  in  a sudden  _ burst  of  un- 
controllable passion,  but  with  deliberate  She 

must  have  gone  armed  to  meet  him.  She  must  imve 
shot  him  through  ^ she  had 

^01 U my  poor 

turned  and  fled  from  the  spot  m a frenzy.  Oli,  yi 

rmSPtawnde1:ed  by  my  anguish,  I rom  from  my 
knees  and  stood  for  a while  hes.de  the  corps  , It  was  m 
that  moment  I learned  how  much  I iea  y 
woman  who  had  done  this  thing.  Over  all  my  gnc  an 
horror  this  love  rose  paramount.  At  all  cost  I mustsavo 
her- save  her  from  tho  hands  of  justice;  save  her  f.om 

£. — r 

louVht°  me1  yesterday  with  the  tale  of  her  wrong  how 
she  had  wildly  fled  from  me,  a few  minutes  ago,  mad 
blindly  into  tho  night;  as  I thought  of  the  injuries  < 

, liad  suffered,  and  which  had  led  her  to  shed  this  man  s 
blood ; as  I contrasted  her  in  her  present  position  with 


48 


DARK  DATS. 


•* 


^hat  she  was  when  first  I knew  her  and  loved  her,  the 
pit j began  to  fade  from  my  heart;  my  thoughts  toward 
the  lifeless  form  at  my  feet  grew  stern  and  sombre,  and/ 
I found  myself  beginning,  by  the  old  code  of  an  eye  ioi 
an  eye  to  justify,  although  I regretted,  Philippa’s  fearful 
act.  Pi glit  or  wrong,  she  was  the  woman  I loved  ; and 
1 swore  I would  save  her  from  the  consequences  of  her 
crime,  even-heaven  help  mo  I— if  the  accusation,  when 
made,  must  fall  upon  , my  shoulders. 

. Tet  it1Was  not  the  beginning  of  any  scheme  to  evade 
justice  which  induced  me  to  raise  the  dead  body  and  bear 
it  to  the  side  of  the  road,  where  I placed  it  under  the 
low  bank  on  which  the  hedge  grew.  It  was  the  rever- 
ence which  one  pays  to  death  made  me  do  this.  I could 
not  leave  the  poor  wretch  lying  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  highway,  for  the  first  passer-by  to  stumble  against. 
To-morrow  he  would,  of  course,  be  found.  To-morrow 
the  hue  and  cry  would  be  out!  To-morrow  Philippa, 
my  nlippa,  would — Oil,  heavens!  never,  never 

So  I laid  what  was  left  of  Sir  Morvyn  Ferrand  rever- 
en  dally  oy  the  side  of  the  lonely  road.  I even  tried  to 
close  his  glassy  eyes,  and  I covered  his  face  with  liis  own 
handkerchief.  Then  with  heart  holding  fear  and  anguish 

enough  for  a lifetime,  I turned  and  went  in  search  of  the 
poor  unhappy  girl. 

Where  should  I seek  her  ? Who  knew  what  her  re- 
morse may  have  urged  her  to  do  ? Who  knew  whither 
her  horror  may  have  driven  her  ? It  needs  but  to  find 
ii  ippa  lifeless  on  the  road  to  complete  the  heaviest  tale 
°.  f , ^bicli  can  be  exacted  from  one  man  in  one  short 
night ! I clenched  my  teeth  and  rushed  on. 

I had  the  road  all  to  myself.  No  one  was  abroad  in 


40 


DARK  DATS. 

8nch  weather.  Indeed,  few  persons  were  seen  at  night 
in  any  weather  in  this  lonely  part  of  the  country.  I 
made  straight  for  my  own  house.  The  dismal  thought 
came  to  me,  that  unless  Philippa  kept  to  the  road  she  was 
lost  to  me  forever.  If  she  strayed  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  how  on  such  a night  could  I possibly  find  her?  My 
one  hope  was,  that  she  would  go  straight  to  my  cottage ; 
so  thither  I made  the  best  of  my  way.  If  she  had  not 
arrived,  I must  get  what  assistance  I could,  and  seek  for 
her  in  the  fields  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  road.  It  was 
a dreary  comfort  to  .remember  that  all  the  ponds  and 
spaces  of  water  were  frozen  six  inches  thick ! 

I hesitated  a moment  when  I reached  her  late  resi- 
dence. Should  I inquire  if  she  had  returned  thither  ? 
No;  when  morning  revealed  the  ghastly  event  of  the 
night,  my  having  done  so  would  awake  suspicion.  Let 
me  first  go  home. 

Home  at  last ! In  a moment  I shall  know  the  worst. 
I opened  the  slide  of  my  lantern,  which  was  still  alight, 
and  threw  the  rays  on  the  path  which  led  to  my  door. 
My  heart  gave  a great  bound  of  thankfulness.  There  on 
the  snow,  not  yet  obliterated  by  more  recent  flakes,  were 
the  prints  of  a small  foot.  Philippa,  as  I prayed  but 
scarcely  dared  to  hope  she  might,  had  come  straight  to 

my  house.  _ i i 

My  man  opened  the  door  for  ?ne.  It  was  well  I had 

seen  those  footprints,  as.  my  knowledge  of  Philippa’s 
arrival  enabled  me  to  assume  a natural  air. 

“ My  sister  has  come  ?”  I asked. 

“ Yes,  sir ; about  a quarter  of  an  hour  ago.” 

« We  missed  each  other  on  the  road.  What  a night  1” 
I said,  throwing  off  my  snow-covered  coat. 

(i  Where  is  she  now  ?”  I asked. 


60 


DAKK  DATS. 

“In  the  sitting-room,  sir.”  The*,  lowering  his  voice, 
William  added,  “She  seemed  just  about  in  a tantrum 
when  she  found  you  weren’t  at  home.  I expect  we  shall 
find  her  a hard  lady  to  please.” 

William,  in  spite  of  his  stolidit}7,  occasionally  ventured 
upon  some  liberty  when  addressing  me. 

Ilis  words  greatly  surprised  * me.  I forced  mysel/  to 
make  some  laughing  rejoinder;  then  I turned  the  handle 
of  the  door  and  entered  the  room  in  which  Philippa  had 
taken  refuge. 

Oh,  how  my  heart  throbbed  ! What  would  she  say  to 
me  ? What  could  I,  fresh  from  that  dreadful  scene,  say 
to  her?  Would  she  excuse  or  palliate,  would  she  simply 
confess  or  boldly  justify  her  crime?  Would  she  plead 
her  wrongs  in  extenuation  ? Would  she  assert  that  in  a 
moment  of  ungovernable  rage  she  had  done  the  deed  ? 
No  matter  what  she  said  ; she  was  still  Philippa,  and 
even  at  the  cost  of  my  own  life  and  honor  I would  save 
her. 

Yet  as  I advanced  into  the  room  a shudder  ran  through 
me.  Fresh  to  my  mind  came  the  remembrance  of  that 
white  face,  that  still  form,  lying  as  I had  left  it,  wTith  the 
pure  white  snow  falling  thickly  around  it. 

Philippa  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire.  Her  hat  was 
removed;  her  dark  hair  dishevelled  and  gleaming  wet 
with  the  snow  which  had  melted  in  it.  She  must  have 
heard  me  enter  and  close  the  door,  but  she  took  no  notice. 
As  I approached  her  she  turned  her  shoulder  upon  me  in 
a pettish  way,  and  as  one  who  by  the  action  means  to 
signify  displeasure.  I came  to  her  side  and  stood  over 
her,  waiting  for  her  to  look  up  and  speak  first.  She 
must  speak  first ! What  can  I say,  after  all  that  has  hap- 
pened to-night  ? 


DARK  DAYS. 


51 


But  she  kept  a stony  silence— kept  her  eyes  still  turned 
from  mine.  At  last  I called  her  by  her  name,  and  bend- 
i pc?  down,  looked  into  her  face. 

Its  expression  was  one  of  sullen  anger,  and,  moreover, 
anger  which  seemed  to  deepen  as  she  heard  my  voice. 
She  made  a kind  of  contemptuous  gesture,  as  if  waving 
me  aside. 

“ Philippa,”  I said,  as  sternly  as  I could,  “ speak  to 

me!”  # 

I laid  my  hand  upon  her  arm.  She  shook  it  off 

fiercely,  and  then  started  to  her  feet. 

u You  ask  me  to  speak  to  you,”  she  said ; ‘‘you*  who 
have  treated  me  like  this ! Oh,  it  is  shameful ! shame- 
ful ! shameful ! I come  through  storm  and  snow— come 
to  you,  who  were  to  welcome  me  as  a brother!  Wheie 
are  you  ? Away,  your  wretched  servant  tells  me.  Why 
are  you  away  ? I trusted  you ! Oh,  you  are  a pretty 
brother  ! If  you  had  cared  for  me  or  respected  me,  you 
would  have  been  here  to  greet  me.  No!  you  are  all  in 
a league — all  in  a league  to  ruin  me]  Now  I am  here, 
what  will  you  do?  Poison  me,  of  course ! kill  me,  and 
make  away  with  me,  even  as  that  other  doctor  killed  and 
made  away  with  my  poor  child  ! He  did ! I say  lie  did  ! 
I saw  him  do  it ! * A child  of  shame,’  he  said  5 so  he 

killed  it ! All,  all,  all,— even  you— you,  whom  I trusted 
— leagued  against  me !” 

She  was  trembling  with  excitement.  Her  words  ran 
one  into  the  other.  It  was  as  much  as  I could  do  to  fol- 
low them ; yet  the  above  is  but  a brief  condensation  of 
what  she  said.  With  unchecked  volubility  she  continued 
to  heap  reproaches  and  accusations,  many  of  which  were 
of  the  most  extravagant  and  frivolous  nature,  on  my 
head.  At  last  she  was  silent,  and  reseated  herself  in  her 


62  DARK  DAYS. 

former  attitude;  and  the  sullen,  discontented,  ill-used 
look  again  settled  on  her  face. 

And  yet,  although  I,  who  loved  her  above  all  the 
world,  was  the  object  of  her  fierce  reproaches,  no  words 
I had  as  yet  listened  to  came  more  sweetly  to  my  ear 
than  these.  A great  joy  swept,'  through  me ; a tide  of 
relief  bore  me  to  comparative  happiness.  Whatever 
dreadful  deed  the  poor  girl  had  that  night  accomplished, 
she  was  morally  innocent.  Philippa  was  not  accounta- 
ble for  her  action? ! 

As  a doctor,  I read  the  truth  at  once.  The  rapid  flow  ’ 
of  words,  the  changing  moods,  the  vehement  excitement, 
the  sullen  air,  the  groundless  suspicions — one  and  all  car- 
ried conviction,  and  told  me  what  was  wrong.  Mrs. 
Wilson’s  words  of  yesterday,  which  warned  me  that  Phi- 
lippa’s health  should  be  inquired  into,  added  absolute  cer- 
tainty. 

My  professional  brethren  who  may  happen  to  read  this 
will  understand  me  when  I say  that,  although  it  is  long 
since  I have  practised  as  a doctor,  I am  sorely  tempted, 
as  I reach  this  stage  of  my  story,  to  give  in  detail  the 
particulars  which  induced  me  to  arrive  at  such  a belief. 
dSTo  physician,  no  surgeon,  lives  who  does  not  feel  it  his 
duty  as  well  as  his  pleasure  to  give  an  accurate  account 
of  any  out-of-the-common  case  which  has  come  under  his 
notice.  But  I am  not  writing  these  pages  for  the  bene- 
fit of  science ; and  having  no  wish  to  make  my  tale  as- 
sume the  authority  of  a hospital  report,  shall  restrain  my- 
self, and  on  technical  points  be  as  brief  as  possible. 

In  short,  then,  Philippa  had  fallen  a victim  to  that 
mania  which  not  uncommonly  shows  itself  after  the 
birth  of  a child — that  dread,  mysterious  disease  which 
may,  at  the  moment  when  everything  seems  going  well, 


DARK  DAYS. 


53 


him  fl  of  iov  into  a house  of  mourning ; a disease 

the  source  of  which  I have  no  hesitation  in 

not  yet  teen  properly  traced  and  investigated  So  for  a» 

I know,  there  is  no  monograph  on  the  subject,  or  cer 

tainlv  there  was  none  at  that  time.  ,. 

Stffl,  it  is  admitted  by  all  the  authorities  that  this  spe- 
cies of  insanity  is  not  unfrequently  produced  by  a severe 
mental  shock,  especially  when  that  shock  is  ^compamed 
by  an  overwhelming  sense  of  shame.  Statistics  show  us 
that  unmarried  women  who  are  mothers,  and  feel  the 
degradation  of  such  a position  acutely,  are  peculmrly  ha- 
ble  to  be  attacked  by  the  mysterious  malady.  Esqmrol 
was,  I believe,  the  first  to  notice  this  fact,  and  the  cor- 
rectness of  his  view  has  subsequently  been  confirmed  by 

^uchbeSg  the  case,  it  is  small  wonder  that  Philippa, 
waking  yesterday  morning  to  receive  the  intelligence 
that  her  marriage  with  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  had  been  a 
farce  should  have  been  thrown  into  a state  extremely 
susceptible  to  the  attack  of  the  disease  Her  careless  ex- 
posure of  herself  to  the  wintry  air,  when  last  mght  s 
sought  me  and  claimed  my  aid,  most  probably  hastened 
the°attack  of  the  foe.  Mrs.  Wilson  had  noticed  he 
strange  manner.  I myself  have  remarked  upon  her 
rapid  changes  from  calmness  to  excitability.  It  was 
clear  to  me  that  even  when  she  visited  me  last  mg 
the  mischief  had  begun  to  develop  itself.  I blamed  my 
blindness  bitterly.  I ought  to  have  seen  what  was  wrong. 
Considering  her  agitated  state,  I ought  to  have  been 
warned,  and  have  taken  precautions ; but  I had  attributed 
those  fitful  changes,  the  meaning  of  which  was  now  on  y 
too  plain  to  me,  to  the  natural  agitation  experienced  by 
a passionate  yet  pure-minded  woman,  who  found  herself 


54 


DARK  DAYS. 


betrayed  and  brought  to  shame.  Oh,  had  I but  guessed  ] 
the  real  cause,  or  rather  the  way  in  which  her  grief  had 
affected  her,  all  the  dark  work  of  that  night  might  have 
been  left  undone ! 

Although  in  many  ways  it  added  to  the  difficulties  and 
dangers  which  surrounded  us,  the  discovery  of  the  truth 
was  an  unspeakable  relief  to  me.  No  right-minded  man 
could  now  call  the  poor  girl  guilty  of  crime.  The  man’s 
blood  was  indeed  on  her  hands ; yet  she  had  shed  it,  not 
knowing  what  she  did.  Her  frenzy  must  then  have  been 
at  its  height.  The  idea  of  his  coming  that  night  must  in 
some  way  have  occurred  to  her.  The  desire  to  see  him 
must  have  driven  her  to  go  and  meet  him.  Her  wrongs 
* — perhaps  the  dread  she  now  felt  of  him  may  have  in- 
duced her  to  arm  herself ; perhaps  she  carried  the  weapon 
for  self-protection.  Any  way,  she  was  mad  when  she 
started ; she  was  mad  when  she  drew  the  trigger ; .she 
was  mad  when  she  broke  from  my  grasp ; she  was  mad 
now  as  she  sat  by  my  fire,  eying  me  with  morose,  sus- 
picious glances.  She  was  mad — and  innocent! 

Her  manner  toward  me  troubled  me  but  little.  It  is 
a well-known  peculiarity  of  the  disease  that  the  patient 
turns  with  hatred  from  those  who  were  the  nearest  and 
dearest  to  her.  Fits  of  sullen,  stubborn  silence,  alternat- 
ing with  fierce  outbursts  of  vituperation,  are  the  most 
common  characteristics  of  the  mania.  Hideous,  startling 
as  it  is  to  see  the  change  wrought  in  the  sufferer,  the 
malady  is  by  no  means  of  such  an  alarming  nature  as  it 
seems.  In  fact  the  majority  of  cases  are  treated  with 
perfect  success. 

But  all  this  is  professional  talk.  Again  I say  that  the 
discovery  of  Philippa’s  state  of  mind  was  an  immense  re- 
lief to  me.  My  conscience  was  cleared  of  a weight  which 


DARK  DAYS.  55 

was  pressing  upon  it.  I felt  braced  up  to  use  every 
. effort,  and  thoroughly  justified  in  following  whatever 
course  I thought  best.  Moreover,  a new  relationship 
was  now  established  between  Philippa  and  myself.  For 
a while  every  feeling  save  one  must  be  banished.  W e 

were  now  doctor  and  patient. 

After  much  persuasion,  I induced  her  to  let  me  fee 
her  pulse.  As'I  expected,  I found  it  up  nearly  to  120. 
This  did  not  alarm  me  much,  as  in  the  course  of  my 
practice  I had  seen  several  of  these  cases.  The  prelimi- 
nary treatment  was  simple  as  A B C ; at  all  cost  sleep 
must  be  obtained. 

Fortunately,  I had  a well-stocked  medicine-chest.  In 
a few  minutes  I had  prepared  the  strongest  dose  of 
opium  which  I dared  to  administer.  In  such  a case  as 
the  present  I knew  that  no  driblets  would  avail ; so  I 
measured  out  no  less  than  sixty  drops  of  laudanum. 
Sleep  the  girl  must  have.  That  poor  seething,  boiling 
brain  must  by  artificial  means  be  forced  to  rest  for  hours. 
After  that  rest  I should  be  able  to  say  what  chance  there 

was  of  saving  life  and  reason.  __ 

But  preparing  a dose  of  medicine,  and  making  a pa- 
tient like  this  take  it,  are  two  different  things.  I tried 
every  art,  everv  persuasion.  I implored  and  comman  e . 
I threatened  ‘ and  insisted.  Philippa  was  obdurate. 
Poor  soul!  she  knew  I meant  to  poison  her.  On  my 
part,  I knew  that  unless  she  swallowed  that  narcotic  to- 

ni*lit,  her  case  was  all  but  hopeless. 

I rested  for  a while  ; then  I sent  for  lukewarm  water. 
After  some  resistance  she  suffered  me  to  bathe  her  thro  - 
bin*  temples.  The  refreshing  coolness  which  followed 
theoperation  was  so  grateful  to  her  that  she  let  me  repea 


66 


DARK  DAYS. 


the  action  again  and  again.  A softer  and  more  contented 
look  settled  on  her  beautiful  face. 

I seized  the  moment.  Once  more  I pressed  the  potion 
upon  her.  This  time  successfully.  My  heart  trembled 
with  joy  as  I saw  her  swallow  the  drug.  Now  she  might 
be  saved  ! 

I still  continued  the  comforting  laving  of  her  temples, 
and  waited  until  the  drug  took  its  due  effect.  By  and 
by  that  moment  came.  The  large  dark  eyes  closed,  the 
weary  head  sank  heavily  on  my  shoulder,  and  I knew 
that  Philippa  had  entered  upon  a term  of  merciful  obliv- 
ion. 

I waited  until  her  sleep  was  sound  as  the  sleep  of 
death;  then  I summoned  my  man.  I had  already  told 
him  that  my  sister  was  very  ill.  Between  us  we  bore 
her  to  her  room  and  laid  her  on  the  bed.  I loosened  her 
dress,  cut  the  wet  boots  from  her  cold  feet ; did  all  I 
could  to  promote  warmth  and  such  comfort  as  was  possi- 
ble under  the  circumstances.  Then  I left  her,  sleeping 
that  heavy  sleep  which  I prayed  might  last  unbroken  for 
hours,  and  hours,  and  hours. 


dakk  pays* 


m 


CHAPTER  V. 

A WHITE  TOMB. 

FROM  the  moment  when  the  true  state  of  Philippa  9 
mind  flashed  upon  me,  to  the  moment  when  I left 
her  sleeping  that  heavy  sleep,- 1 had  little  time  to  tlnnk 
of  anything  else  than  the  best  means  of  saving  her  liie, 
and,  if  possible,  her  reason.  True,  throughout  the  whole 
of  my  operations  to  effect  this  end,  a dim  sort  of  horror 
pervaded  me— a recollection  of  the  ghastly  object  which 
lay  on  the  roadside,  some  three  miles  from  us;  but  it 
was  not  until  I turned  from  my  patient’s  door  that  the 
terrible  situation  in  which  she  was  placed  presented  itselt 
to  me  in  all  its  dread  entirety.  Half  broken-hearted,  I 
threw  myself  wearily  into  my  chair,  and  covered  my  face 

with  my  hands.  , , , m 

What  was  to  be  done?  What  was  to  be  done?  10- 
morrow  morning  the  body  would  be  found.  I felt  cer- 
tain that  when  inquiry  was  made  suspicion  would  at  once 
point  toward  Philippa.  Mrs.  Wilson  knew  of  her  start- 
ing from  home  in  the  evening,  alone  and  on  foot,  bhe 
knew,  moreover,  that  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  was  her  hus- 
band ; that  he  had  ill-used  her.  She  would  most  certainly 
know  to  whom  Philippa  had  fled.  It  did  not  follow  that 
because  I was  ignorant  as  to  who  were  my  neighbors  they 
knew  nothing  about  me.  At  any  rate,  William,  my  man, 

would  know  the  truth.  So  far  as  I could  see,  to-morrow 

' 


DARK  DATS. 


68 


or,  by  the  latest,  the  next  day  Philippa  would  he  arrested 
for  the  crime.  Most  probably,  I should  also  be  included 
in  the  arrest.  For  that  I seemed  to  care  nothing ; except 
that  it  might  hinder  me  from  helping  my  poor  girl. 

Any  hope  of  removing  Philippa — there,  put  it  in  plain 
words — any  hope  of  flight,  for  days,  even  weeks,  was 
vain.  Let  everything  go  as  well  as  can  be  in  such  cases, 
the  girl  must  be  kept  in  seclusion  and  quiet  for  at  least 
a fortnight  or  three  weeks.  I groaned  as  I thought 
of  what  would  happen  if  Philippa  was  arrested  and  car- 
ried before  the  magistrates,  accused  of  the  awful  crime. 
From  that  moment  until  the  day  of  her  death  she  would 
be  insane. 

Yet,  what  help  was  there  for  it?  The  moment  the 
deed  is  known — the  moment  Mrs.  Wilson  learns  that 
Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  has  been  found  shot  through  the 
heart,  she  will  let  it  be  known  that  Lady  Ferrand  is  at 
hand ; and  Lady  Ferrand,  who  has  been  passing  under 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Farmer,  will  be  sought  and  found. 
And  then — and  then  ? 

Even  if  she  did  not  die  at  once— even  if  she  recovered 
— oh,  the  shame  of  the  trial!  No  jury  could  or 'would 
convict  her  : but  for  Philippa,  my  queen,  to  stand  in  the 
dock,  to  plead  for  her  life  ; to  know  that,  whether  con. 
victed  or  acquitted,  the  deed  was  done  by  her ; to  know 
that  all  England  is  talking  of  her  wrongs  and  her  ven- 
geance— horrible!  horrible!  It  shall  never  be.  Rather 
will  I give  her  a draught  of  opium  heavy  enough  to  close 
her  eyes  forever.  There  will  be  plenty  more  of  the  drug 
left  for  me  5 

Fool  that  I was!  Why  did  I do  things  by  halves? 
Why,  for  her  sake,  did  I not  hide  the  d#ad  man  where 
cone  would  .find  him  ? Why  did  I not  rifle  his  pockets, 


BARK  DAYS. 


G& 


so  that  suspicion  should  have  pointed  to  a vulgar  mur- 
derer; some  one  who  had  killed  him  for  mere  plunder? 
Why  did  I not,  at  least,  destroy  any  letters  or  papers 
which  were  about  him  ? Identification  might  then  have 
been  rendered  difficult,  and  perhaps  been  delayed  for 
weeks.  In  that  time  I might  have  saved  her. 

Why  do  I not  do  this  now?  I started  to  my  feet ; 
then  sank  back  into  my  chair.  No;  not  even  for  Philip- 
• pa’s  sake  could  I go  again  to  that  spot.  If  I did  so,  I 
should  return  as  mad  as  she  is  now. 

Not  being  able  to  bring  myself  to  adopt  the  gruesome 
alternative,  I could  do  nothing  save  wait  events — noth- 
ing, at  least,  to  avert  the  consequences  of  her  delirious 


act. 

But  for  her  something  must  be  done.  IIow  could  she, 
in  her  frenzied  state,  be  left  here — her  only  companions 
two  men  ? Nurses  must  be  at  once  procured.  I sum- 
moned William,  and  told  him  he  must  go  to  London  by 
the  first  train  in  the  morning. 

William  would  have  received  my  instructions  to  go  to 
the  Antipodes  with  imperturbability.  He  merely  ex- 
pressed a doubt  as  to  whether  any  one  would  be  able  to 
get  to  London  to-morrow  on  account  of  the  snow.  I 
walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

The  night  was  still  one  mad  whirl  of  snow-flakes.  The 
window-panes  were  half  covered  by  such  as  managed  to 
find  a resting-place  there.  As  I watched  what  I could 
see  of  the  wild  white  dance,  I found  myself  thinking  that 


r,. 


by  now  that  dead  man  on  tlie  road  must  be  covered  an 
inch — must  have  lost  shape  and  outline.  I shivered  as  I 
turned  away. 

“ They  are  sure  to  keep  the  line  to  town  open  ” I said. 
iL  If  you  can  get  to  Roding,  you  can  get  to  London.” 


60 


DAUK  BAYS. 


“Oh,  I can  get  to  Roding  right  enough !”  said 
William. 

Then  I told  him  what  he  was  to  do.  He  was  to  take 
a letter  to  one  of  the  Nursing  Institutions,  and  bring 
back  two  nurses  with  him.  No  matter  what  the  weather 
was  when  they  reached  Roding,  they  were  to  come  to 
my  house  at  once,  even  if  they  had  to  hire  twenty  horses 
to  drag  them  there.  lie  was  also  to  get  me  a few  drugs 
which  I might  want. 

William  said  no  more.  He  nodded,  to  show  that  he 
understood  me ; and  I knew  that  if  it  were  possible  to 
do  my  bidding  it  would  be  done. 

Of  his  own  accord  he  then  brought  me  food.  I ate,  for 
I knew  that  I should  want  all  my  strength  to  support  the 
anxieties  of  the  next  day  or  two. 

I stayed  up  the  whole  night.  Oh,  that  awful  night  f 
shall  I ever  forget  it?  The  solitude — the  raging  snow- 
storm outside — the  poor  creature  to  whose  side  I crept 
noislessly  every  half  an  hour.  She  lay  there  with  a face 
like  marble,  calm  and  beautiful.  The  long,  dark  lashes 
swept  her  pale  cheek.  The  only  movement  was  the 
regular  rise  and  fall  of  the  bosom.  Oh,  happy  oblivion ! 
Oh,  dreaded  wakening!  As  I looked  at  her,  in  spite  of 
the  love  I bore  her,  I believe  that,  had  I thought  such  a 
prayer  would  be  answered,  I should  for  her  sake  have 
prayed  that  those  lashes  might  never  again  be  lifted. 

Morning  at  last  broke  on  my  dreary  vigil.  Philippa 

still  slept.  I returned  to  the  sitting-room  and  drew  back 

tire  curtains  fi%m  the  window.  Yes:  it  was  moraine* — • • 

7 © 

sncli  a morning  as  leaden,  wintry  skies  can  give.  It  was 
still  snowing  as  heavily  a%,  if  not  more  heavily  than,  it 
had  snowed  last  night.  For  twelve  hours  the  flakes  had 
fallen  without  iutermissiou. 


DARK  DATS. 


61 


There  was  little  wind  now ; it  had  dropped,  I knew, 
about  an  hour  ago.  The  world,  so  far  as  I could  see,  was 
clad  in  white : but  the  snow  lay  unevenly.  The  wind 
had  blown  it  into  drifts.  On  my  garden  path  its  depth 
might  be  counted  by  inches ; against  my  garden  wall  by 
feet. 

William  now  made  his  appearance.  He  prepared  some 
breakfast  for  himself,  and  then,  having  done  justice  to  it, 
started  for  Boding.  It  occurred  to  me  that  he  might  be 
the  first  to  find  the  object  which  lay  on  the  roadside. 

Except  that  so  doing  might  delay  him  and  cause  him 
to  miss  his  train,  this  mattered  little.  I was  now  calmly 
awaiting  the  inevitable.  Borne  one  must  make  the  dis- 
covery. However,  as  I wanted  the  nurses,  I said  to 
him : 

“Bemember  this  is  life  and  death.  Nothing  must 
stop  you.”  He  touched  his  hat  in  a reassuring  manner, 
and  tramped  off  through  the  snow. 

I returned  to  my  patient’s  bedside  and  sat  watching 
her,  and  waiting  for  her  to  awake.  She  had  now  slept 
for  nearly  eleven  hours,  and  I knew  that  return  to  life 
might  take  place  at  any  moment.  I longed  for,  and  yet 
I dreaded,  her  awakening.  When  the  effects  of  the 
opiate  were  gone,  how  should  I find  her  ? Alas ! I knew 
that  the  chances  were  a thousand  to  one  that  her  brain 
would  still  be  full  of  strange  delusions ; that  she  would 
turn  from  me,  as  she  turned  last  night,  with  loathing 
and  anger.  But  my  greatest  fear  was  that  she  would, 
upon  coming  to  herself,  or  rather  to  her  poor  insane  self, 
be  conscious  of  the  act  she  had  accomplished.  It  was  the 
fear  of  this  which  made  me  wish  that  the  opium  would 
hold  her  in  its  drowsy  grasp  for  hours  longer. 

This  wish  was  granted.  Hour  after  hour  I sat  by  her 


62 


DARK  DAYS. 


motionless  form.  Now  and  again  I glanced  from  the 
beautiful,  senseless  face,  and  looking  out  of  the  window 
saw  the  snow  still  falling.  Would  my  messenger  ever 
be  able  to  reach  town  ; if  lie  did  so,  would  he  be  able  to 
return?  I was  bound  to  have  a woman’s  aid.  The 
presence  of  the  roughest  daughter  of  the  plough  would 
be  welcome  to  me  when  Philippa  awoke.  And  it  was 
now  time  she  did  so. 

Although  I felt  her  pulse  almost  every  other  minute, 
and  could  find  no  reason  for  alarm,  I am  bound  to  say 
that  her  long  sleep,  protracted  far  beyond  any  I had  in 
my  experience  seen  produced  by  the  exhibition  of  nar- 
cotics, rendered  me  very  uneasy.  I shall,  I am  sure, 
scarcely  be  credited  when  I say  that  Philippa’s  uncon- 
sciousness lasted  for  sixteen  hours — from  half-past  nine 
at  night  to  half-past  one  on  the  following  afternoon.  I 
began  then  to  think  the  duration  abnormal,  and  deter- 
mined to  take  some  steps  toward  arousing  her. 

But  I was  spared  the  responsibility.  She  stirred  on 
the  couch.  lief  head  turned  languidly  on  the  pillow. 
Her  dark  eyes  opened,  closed,  and  opened  again.  She 
looked  at  me  in  a dazed  manner,  not  at  first  seeming  to 
know  me,  or  to  understand  why  I was  near  her,  or  where 
she  was.  A prey  to  the  wildest  anxiety,  I leaned  over 
her,  and  waited  until  she  spoke. 

Little  by  little  her  bewilderment  seemed  to  leave  her. 
Iler  eyes  rested  with  curious  inquiry  upon  mine. 
“ Basil,”  she  said,  faintly,  but  in  a tone  of  surprise,  “ you 
here ! Where  am  I ?” 

“ Under  my  roof — your  brother’s  roof,”  I said. 

“Ah  ! I remember,”  she  said,  with  a deep  sigh.  Then 
rhe  closed  her  eyes,  and  once  more  seemed  to  sleep. 

What  did  she  remember  ? It  seemed  to  me  too  great 


DARK  DATS. 


63 


a mercy  to  expect  that  those  hours  of  oblivion  had 
effected  a cure,  but  my  hope  was  that  she  did  not  remem- 
ber what  had  happened  when  she  met  Sir  Mervyn  Fer- 
rand  on  the  road.  I was  almost  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. I was  longing  to  really  know  in  what  state  her 
mind  was.  Besides,  I thought  she  had  slept  as  long  as 
was  good  for  her.  I took  her  hands  and  called  her  by 
name. 

POnce  more  she  opened  her  eyes.  They  expressed  no 
fear  of  me,  no  dislike  to  me.  They  conveyed  no  re- 
proach. They  were  calm,  sad,  weary,  but  gave  no  evi- 
dence of  any  mental  disorder. 

“ Have  I been  ill  long,  Basil  ?”  she  asked. 

“Not  very  long.  You  are  going  to  get  better  soon. 

“I  came  to  your  house,  did  I not  ?” 

“ Yes  ; and  here  I mean  to  keep  you.  Do  you  feel 
weak?”  , 

“Yery  weak.  Basil,  I have  dreamed  such  horrible 
things.” 

“You  have  been  feverish  and  delirious.  People  like 
that  always  fancy  strange  things.” 

She  was  indeed  as  weak  as  a child  ; but  for  the  time, 
at  least,  she  was  perfectly  sane.  I could  have  cried  for 
joy  as  I heard  her  faint  but  collected  words.  . I ventured 
to  hope  that  I had  before  me  one  of  those  very  rare  eases 
^-such  as  I had  seen  described,  but  had  not  as  yet  met 
With — where  the  patient  awakes  from  the  long,  artifi- 
cially produced  sleep  perfectly  free  from  all  maniacal 
symptoms.  If  this  were  so  with  Philippa,  if  the  return 
of  reason  were  to  be  permanent,  I knew  that  a few 
weeks’  careful  nursing  and  judicious  treatment  might 
quite  restore  her  to  health.  Even  as  this  comforting 
thought  came  to  me,  I remembered  the  peril  in  which 


64 


DARK  DAYS. 


she  stood.  To-morrow — ay,  even  to-day — the  thing 
which  I dreaded  might  happen,  and  sweep  away  all  the 
good  the  narcotic  had  done  her. 

She  was  now  fully  awake,  and  perfectly  quiet.  I gave 
her  some  refreshment;  then  seeing  she  was  lying  in 
peaceful  silence,  I thought  it  better  to  leave  her.  As  I 
quitted  her  room  I drew  down  the  blind,  fearing  that  the  ! 
whirling  snow  might  bring  recollections  which  it  was 
my  one  wish  to  keep  from  invading  her  mind. 

The  long  dreary  day  wore  away.  The  light  faded, 
and  another  night  began.  Philippa  still  lay  calm,  silent, 
and  almost  apathetic.  I did  nothing  to  rouse  her.  I 
went  to  her  side  as  seldom  as  possible.  I feared  that  her 
seeing  me  might  recall  the  events  of  the  last  night,  and 
that  recollections  so  awakened  might  destroy  all  the  good 
which  I felt  sure  had  been  accomplished  by  the  long 
hours  of  oblivion  and  quiet.  Could  I have  deputed  the 
task  to  another,  I would  not  have  even  shown  myself  to 
my  patient.  Most  anxiously,  as  evening  came,  I awaited 
the  appearance  of  my  faithful  William  and  the  nurses. 

Would  they  be  able  to  reach  us  in  such  weather?  It 
was  still  snowing  fiercely.  For  more  than  twenty-four 
Fours  the  mad  white  revel  had  continued  without  inter- 
mission. Indeed,  that  storm  which  burst  upon  the  world 
as  I turned  from  Philippa’s  house  on  the  preceding  night 
is  now  historical ; it  was  the  beginning  of  the  heaviest 
and  the  longest  fall  which  the  record  of  fifty  years  can 
show.  For  two  nights  and  a day  the  snow  came  down 
in  what  may  almost  be  called  drifting  masses.  During 
that  dismal  day  I saw  from  the  window  the  heaps  against 
the  wall  grow  deeper  and  deeper,  and  even  in  my  pre- 
occupied state  of  mind  found  myself  marvelling  at  the 
sustained  fury  of  the  storm. 


DAKK  DAYS. 


65 


At  eleven  o’clock  at  niglit  I sadly  gave  up  all  hope 
of  the  much-needed  assistance  arriving.  After  all,  it 
seemed  that  William  had  found  it  impossible  to  fight 
against  the  weather;  so  I made  my  preparations  for 
another  night  of  solitary  watchfulness.  I was  all  but 
worn  out  with  fatigue ; yet  I dared  not  sleep.  If  the 
mania  returned,  what  might  happen,  were  I not  at  hand 
to  restrain  Philippa’s  actions  ? My  hope  that  the  madnest 
had  really  left  my  patient,  not,  if  she  were  properly 
treated,  to  return,  was  a growing  one,  but  not  yet  strong 
enough  to  allow  me  to  leave  her  for  any  length  of  time. 

My  delight  then  may  be  imagined  when,  looking  for 
the  hundredth  time  up  the  road,  I saw  close  at  hand  two 
flashing  lights,  and  knew  that  William,  the  faithful,  had 
done  my  bidding.  In  a few  minutes  two  respectable 
women  from  one  of  the  best  of  the  London  Nursing  In. 
stitutions  were  within  my  walls. 

The  train  had,  of  course,  been  late,  very  late.  At  one 
or  two  places  on  the  line  it  had  almost  given  up  the  bat- 
tle, and  settled  down  quietly  until  dug  out ; but  steam 
and  iron  had  conquered,  and  at  last  it  did  get  to  Koding. 
There  William,  knowing  my  dire  necessity,  offered  such 
a magnificent  bribe  that  he  soon  found  an  enterprising 
carriage  proprietor  who  was  willing  to  make  the  attempt 
to  force  two  horses  and  a carriage  over  the  six  miles  of 
road  between  Koding  and  my  house.  The  attempt  was 
successful,  although  the  rate  of  progression  was  slow ; 
and  William  triumphantly  ushered  his  charges  into  my 
presence. 

After  giving  them  time  for  rest  and  refreshment,  I 
explained  the  nature  of  the  case,  set  out  the  treatment  I 
wished  to  be  adopted,  and  then  led  them  to  Philippa.  I 
left  the  poor  girl  in  their  charge  for  the  night,  then 


63 


DARK  DATS. 


went  to  take  the  sleep  of  which  I stood  so  much  in 
need. 

But  before  going  to  bed  I saw  'William.  I dreaded  to 
hear  him  say  what  gruesome  sight  he  had  seen  that 
morning ; yet  I was  bound  to  learn  if  the  deed  had  yet 
been  made  public. 

“ Did  you  manage  to  get  to  Boding  all  right  this 
morning  ?”  I asked  with  assumed  carelessness. 

“ I managed  all  right,  sir,”  said  William,  cheerfully. 

“ Snow  deep  on  the  road  ?” 

“Not  so  deep  as  I fancied ’t would  be.  All  drifted 
and  blown  up  to  one  side,  like.  I never  seen  such  a 
thing.  Drift  must  have  been  feet  deep  this  morning. 
What  must  it  be  now,  I wonder  ? Something  like  the 
arctic  regions,  I should  think,  sir !” 

For  the  first  time  for  hours  and  hours,  a ray  of  hope 
flashed  across  me.  William  had  walked  that  lonely  road 
this  morning,  and  noticed  nothing  except  the  drifted 
snow ! I remembered  how  I had  placed  the  dead  man 
in  the  little  hollow  at  the  bottom  of  the  bank.  Could  it 
be  that  the  kindly,  merciful  snow,  which  I have  already 
described  as  beginning  to  form  in  a winding-sheet,  had 
hidden  and  buried  him?  That  a pure  white,  shapeless 
heap,  which  told  no  tales,  concealed  for  a while  the  dark 
deed  from  the  world?  Oh  that  Philippa  were  well 
enough  to  leave  this  place  to-morrow ! We  might  fly 
and  leave  no  trace  behind  us.  She  might  never  know 
what  she  had  done  in  her  madness.  The  fearful  secret 
would  be  mine  alone.  A burden  it  would  be,  but  one 
which  I might  easily  find  strength  enough  to  bear.  Bear 
it ! I could  bear  it,  and  be  happy  ; for  something  told 
me  that,  could  I but  save  her  from  the  peril  which  men- 
aced her,  Philippa  and  I would  part  no  more  in  this 


Dark  days. 


67 


world  until  death,  the  only  conqueror  of  such  love  as 
mine,  swept  us  asunder. 

Once  more  I looked  out  into  the  night.  Still  the 
snow-flakes  whirled  down.  Oh,  brave,  kind  snow  ! Fall, 
fall,  fall ! Pile  the  masses  on  the  dead  wretch.  Hide 
him  deep  in  your  bosom.  Fall  for  weeks,  for  months, 
forever  1 Save  my  love  and  me  l 


68 


DARK  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  SECRET  KEPT. 

IT  is  needless  to  say  tliat  when  I awoke  the  next  morn- 
ing  my  first  thought  was  of  Philippa:  but  my  first 
action  was  to  go  to  my  window  and  look  at  the  skies. 
My  heart  sank  within  me  as  I saw  that  the  snow  had 
ceased  falling,  and  the  wintry  sun  was  shining.  I 
threw  up  the  sash ; the  cold  air  cut  me  like  a knife.  I 
gathered  up  a handful  of  snow  from  the  window-sill.  It 
crumbled  in  my  fingers  like  tooth-powder.  I guessed  at 
once  that  a hard  black  frost  had  succeeded  the  snow.  I 
ran  downstairs  and  glanced  at  ray  thermometer  outside 
my  sitting-room  window.  It  registered  twelve  degrees  of 
frost.  My  spirits  rose;  1 felt  that  Philippa  would  be 
saved.  The  wind  was  due  east : so  long  as  it  stayed 
there  the  frost  would  last,  and  that  white  tomb  on  the 
roadside  hide  the  secret  of  the  dreadful  night. 

I found,  moreover,  that  Philippa’s  condition  was  all 
that  could,  under  the  circumstances,  be  hoped  for. 
Since  she  had  awakened  from  that  long  sleep  into  winch 
the  opiate  had  plunged  her,  there  had  been  no  recurrence 
of  the  delusions;  no  symptoms  which  gave  me  any 
alarm.  She  was,  of  course,  weak  in  body,  but  quite 
quiet  and  collected.  She  spoke  but  little,  and  the  few 
words  which  she  did  speak  had  ho  bearing  on  forbidden 
or  disturbing  subjects. 


DARK  DATS. 


69 


Day  after  day  went  by,  and  still  the  brave  black  frost 
held  the  world  in  its  iron  grip,  and  kept  the  secret  of  the 
night.  Morning  after  morning  I woke  to  find  the  wind 
still  blowing  from  the  east,  the  skies  clear  and  showing 
every  evidence  of  a long  spell  of  hard  weather.  A pre- 
sentiment that  we  should  be  saved  was  now  firmly 
established  in  my  mind.  The  heavens  themselves 
seemed  to  be  shielding  us  and  working  for  us. 

I have  not  given  the  year  in  which  these  things  oc- 
curred ; but  many  who  can  remember  that  mighty  fall  of 
snow,  and  the  time  which  the  frost  kept  it  on  the  earth, 
will  be  able  to  fix  the  date.  Since  that  year  there  has 
been  no  weather  like  it. 

Day  by  day  Philippa  grew  better  and  stronger.  I 
spare  you,  as  I promised  to,  all  description  which  is  not 
absolutely  necessary  of  my  treatment  of  my  patient,  and 
all  technical  summary  of  the  case ; but  before  many  days 
had  gone  by  I knew  that,  as  I hoped,  I had  to  deal  with 
one  of  those  rare  instances  in  which  the  balance  of  the 
mind  is  restored  by  forced  sleep,  and  the  complete 
restoration  of  health  is  but  a matter  of  time  and  care. 

As  soon  as  it  became  a certainty  that  all  danger  to 
life  or  reason  was  at  an  end,  I began  to  consider  what 
course  to  adopt.  The  moment  she  was  well  enough  to 
risk  the  journey,  or  even,  if  a thaw  set  in,  before  then, 
Philippa  must  fly  from  the  scene  of  the  tragedy  in 
which  she  had  played  so  terrible,  yet  morally  irresponsi- 
ble, a part.  We  must  put  lands  and  seas  between  our- 
selves and  the  fatal  spot.  But  how  to  persuade  her  that 
sucli  flight  was  absolutely  necessary?  Brother  and 
sister  as  we  now  termed  ourselves,  would  she  ever 
consent  to  accompany  me  abroad  ? Had  I the  right  to 
put  the  woman  I loved  in  such  an  equivocal  position  ? 


70 


DARK  DATS. 


]No!  a thousand  times  no!  And  yet  I knew  there  was 
no  safety  for  her  in  England;  and  with  whom  could  | 
she  leave  England  save  with  me? 

I dared  not  urge  upon  her  my  true  reason  for  flight. 

It  was  my  greatest  hope  that  the  events  of  that  night  had 
left  her  mind  when  the  madness  left  her,  never  to  be 
recalled.  And  now  time  was  pressing;  ten  days  had 
passed  by.  The  glorious  frost  still  kept  our  counsel,  but 
it  could  not  last  forever.  The  time  must  come  when  the 
white  heaps  of  snow  would  melt  and  vanish  away,  and 
then  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  cold  dead  face  would  appear, 
and  tell  the  tale  of  his  death  to  the  first  passer-by. 

I had  scarcely  quitted  the  house  since  that  night. 
Yet  one  day  a kind  of  morbid  fascination  had  led  me  to  | 
walk  along  the  road  toward  Roding,  and  to  halt  at  what 
1 judged  to  be  the  spot  where  I laid  the  dead  man  by 
the  side  of  the  road.  I fancied  I could  single  out  the 
very  drift  under  which  that  awful  thing  lay,  and  a 
dreary  temptation  to  probe  the  white  heap  with  my 
stick  and  make  sure  assailed  me.  I resisted  it,  and 
turned  away  from  the  spot. 

There  was  a certain  amount  of  traffic  on  the  road. 
By  now  the  snow  had  been  beaten  down  by  cart-wheels  , 
and  people’s  feet,  so  that  it  was  quite  possible  to  walk 
from  one  place  to  another.  As  1 reached  the  house  fiom 
which  Philippa  fled  to  seek  refuge  with  me,  I encoun- 
tered Mrs.  Wilson.  I was  going  to  pass  without  any 
sign  of  recognition,  but  she  stopped  me. 

“ X thought  you  were  going  to  take  your  sister  away  ? ’ 


she  said.  t 

“ Lady  Ferrand  was  unfortunately  taken  very  ill  when 

she  left  you.  She  is  now  hardly  well  enough  to  be  re- 
moved.” 


i 

: 


DA  UK  DATS. 


71 


« Has  she  heard  from  Sir  Mervyn  ?”  asked  Mrs.  Wil- 
son, abruptly. 

“ Hot  to  my  knowledge,”  I replied. 

“It  is  strange.  You.  know,  I suppose,  that  he  was 

expected  at  my. house  that  night? 

« Certainly  I do.  It  was  for  that  reason  my  sister  left 


you 


J? 


Mrs.  Wilson  looked  at  me  thoughtfully.  “ She  will 
not  meet  him  again  ?” 

“ Never,”  I said,  thinking  as  I spoke  that  my  words 
bore  a meaning  only  known  to  myself. 

“ Hoes  she  hate  him?”  she  asked,  suddenly. 

“ She  has  been  cruelly  wronged,”  I said,  evasively. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.  “Listen,”  she  said. 

« If  I thought  she  hated  him,  I would  see  her  before  she 
leaves,  and  tell  her  something.  _ If  I thought  he  hated 
her,  I would  tell  him.  I will  wait  and  see. 

She  turned  away  and  walked  on,  leaving  me  to  make 
the  best  of  her  enigmatical  words.  She  was  evidently  a 
strange  woman,  %nd  I felt  more  sure  than  ever  was  in 
some  way  mixed  up  with  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  early 
life.  I had  a great  mind  to  follow  her  and  demand  an 
explanation,  but  caution  told  me  that  the  less  I said  to 
her  the  better.  It  was  from  this  woman’s  knowledge  of 
.the  relationship  between  Philippa  and  the  dead  man  that, 
when  the  secret  of  the  night  was  laid  bare,  the  greatest 
danger  must  arise. 

After  walking  a few  paces,  Mrs.  Wilson  turned  and 
came  back  to  me.  “ Give  me  an  address,”  she  said ; I 

may  want  to  write  to  you.” 

I hesitated ; then  I told  hor  that  any  letters  sent  to  my 
bankers  in  London  would  reach  me  sooner  or  later.  It 


72 


DARK  DAtS. 


was  too  soon  to  excite  suspicion  by  concealment  of  one’s 
movements. 

It  was  after  I had  gazed  at  that  white  tomb  by  the 
roadside  that  my  impatience  to  remove  Philippa  grew 
fiercer  and  fiercer.  Moreover,  I had  at  last  made  up  my 
mind  what  to  do  with  my  precious  charge.  As  soon  as 
she  was  well  enough  to  bear  the  journey,  I resolved  to 
take  her  to  London,  and  place  her  in  the  hands  of  one  of 
the  truest,  noblest,  tenderest  women  in  the  world,  my 
mother. 

She  was  in  London,  waiting  for  me  to  join  her.  I had 
written,  telling  her  that  the  serious  illness  of  a friend 
prevented  me  from  leaving  my  home  for  some  days. 
Now  I resolved  to  go  to  her  and  tell  her  alLPhilippa’s 
sad  tale — all  save  the  one  dark  chapter  of  which  she  her- 
self, I hoped,  knew  nothing.  I would  take  her  to  my 
mother.  I would  tell  my  mother  how  I loved  her ; I 
would  appeal  to  her  love  for  me,  and  ask  her  to  take  my 
poor  stricken  girl  to  her  heart,  even  as  she  would  take  a 
daughter  ; and  I dared  to  hope  that,  if  only  for  my  sake, 
my  prayer  would  be  granted. 

Philippa  was  by  now  thoroughly  convalescent.  As  I 
lay  down  my  pen  for  a moment  and  think  of  that  time, 
with  its  fears  and  troubles,  it  is  a marvel  to  me  that  I 
could  have  dared  to  wait  so  long  before  moving  her  from 
the  neighborhood.  I can  only  attribute  my  lingering  to 
the  sense  of  fatality  that  all  would  go  right,  or  to  the 
professional  instinct  which  forbade  me  urging  a patient 
to  do  anything  which  might  retard  recovery  ; but  the 
time  had  at  last  come. 

Save  for  her  quiet  and  subdued  manner,  my  love  was 
almost  her  old  self  again.  Her  words  and  manner  to  me 
Were  tender,  affectionate,  and  sisterly.  I need  hardly  say 


DARK  DAYS. 


73 


that  during  that  time  no  word  crossed  my  lips  which  I 
would  have  recalled.  Love,  if  not  the  thought  of  it,  I 
had  laid  aside  until  happier  days  dawned  ; for— I say  it 
advisedly,  and  at  risk  of  censure— Philippa  was  to  me 
pure  and  innocent  as  on  the  day  when  first  we  met.  If 
her  hands  were  stained  with  the  blood  of  Sir  Mervyn 
Ferrand,  she  knew  it  not.  Her  wrongs  had  goaded  her 
to  madness,  and  her  madness  was  responsible  for  the  act, 
not  she  herself. 

The  man’s  name  never  crossed  her  lips.  For  all  she 
spoke  of  him  he  might  never  have  existed,  or,  at  the 
most,  been  but  a part  of  a forgotten  dream.  As  soon  as 
she  was  well  enough  to  rise  from  her  bed,  and  I could 
for  hours  enjoy  her  society,  we  talked  of  many  things  ; 
but  never  of  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  and  the  immediate 
past. 

But,  nevertheless,  there  were  times  when  her  look 
distressed  me.  Now  and  again  I found  her  gazing  at  me 
with  anxious,  troubled  eyes,  as  if  trying  to  read  some- 
thing which  I was  hiding  from  her.  Once  she  asked 
me  how  she  came  to  my  house  that  night. 

“Out  of  the  whirling,  snow,”  I said  as  lightly  as  I 
could.  “You  came  in  a high  state  of  fever  and  deli- 
rium.” 

“ Where  had  I been ? What  had  I been  doing?” 

“ You  came  straight  from  Mrs.  Wilson’s,  I suppose.  I 
know  no  more.” 

Then  she  sighed  and  turned  her  head  away;  but  I soon 
found  her  troubled  dark  eyes  again  fixed  on  my  own.  I 
could  do  nothing  but  meet  their  gaze  bravely,  and  pray 
that  my  poor  love  might  never,  never  be  able  to  fill  those 
hours  which  were  at  present  a blank  to  her. 

At  last,  exactly  a fortnight  from  the  fatal  day,  we  left 


74 


DARK  DATS. 


my  liome.  I was  now  what  is  legally  termed  an  acces- 
sory after  the  act,  and  was  making  every  effort  to  save 
the  poor  girl  from  justice.  In  order  to  avert  suspicion, 
I decided  it  was  better  not  to  shut  up  my  house  ; so  I left 
the  faithful  William  to  take  care  of  it,  and  await  my  in- 
structions. At  present  it  was  advisable  that  any  inquirers 
should  learn  that  I had  gone  to  London  with  my  sister, 
and  that  the  time  of  our  return  was  uncertain.  By  and 
by,  if  all  went  well,  I could  get  rid  of  my  cottage  in  an 
ordinary  way.  I,  for  one,  should  never  wish  to  visit  tin 
place  again. 

Philippa  acquiesced  in  all  my  arrangements.  She  was 
quite  willing  to  accompany  me  to  town.  She  trusted  me 

tth  childish  simplicity.  “But,  Basil,  afterward— what 
afterward  ?”  she  asked. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  the  menacing  peril  it  was  all  I 
could  do  to  refrain  from  kneeling  at  her  feet  and  telling 
her  that  my  love  would  solve  the  question  of  the  future. 

“ I have  a surprise  for  you  in  London,”  I said,  as  cnv^i- 
fully  as  I could.  “ Trust  yourself  to  me ; you  will  not 
regret  it.” 

She  took  my  hand.  “ Whom  else  have  I to  trust  ?” 
she  said  simply.  “ Basil,  you  have  been  very  good  to  me. 
I have  made  your  life  miserable;  it  is  too  late  to  atone; 
but  I shall  never  forget  these  days.” 

- Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  I kissed  her  hand  rever- 
ently, and  told  her  that  when  I saw  the  old  smile  back 
upon  her  lips,  all  I had  done  would  be  a thousand  times 
repaid ; but  as  I spoke  I trembled  at  the  thought  of  what 
might  be  in  store  for  both  of  ns. 

We  drove  to  Boding,  and  were  perforce  obliged  to 
take  the  road  which  passed  by  Mrs.  Wilson’s  house. 
T bilippa  half  rose  from  her  seat,  and  seemed  to  be  on  the 


DARK  DAYS. 


75 


point  of  asking  me  some  question;  but  slie  changed  her 
mind,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  I felt  a horrible  dread 
lest  the  roadside  objects  and  landmarks  should  awaken 
recollection,  and  my  heart  beat  violently  as  we  neared  the 
white  heap  by  the  hedge,  that  heap  which  I believed  held 
our  secret.  I felt  that  I grew  deadly  pale.  I was  foiced 
to  turn  my  head  away  and  loot  out  of  the  opposite  win- 
dow. My  state  of  mind  was  not  made  easier  by  knowing 
that  Philippa  was  gazing  at  me  with  that  troubled  loo 
in  her  eyes.  Altogether  I felt  that  the  strain  was  becom- 
ing too  much  for  me,  and  I began  to  wonder  if  my  life 
would  ever  again  know  a happy  or  secure  moment. 

After  a long  silence  Philippa  spoke.  ‘ Tell  me,  Basil, 
have  you  heard  from  that  man? 

I shook  my  head. 

« Where  is  he  % He  was  coming  that  night.  Hid  lie 
come  r 

. “I  suppose  not.  "Why  do  you  ask . 

“ Basil,  a kind  of  horrible  dream  haunts  me.  There 
was  something  I dreamed  Of  that  fearful  night,  something 
I dream  of  now.  Tell  me  what  it  was.” 

The  perspiration  rose  to  my  brow.  “Dearest,  I san, 
“no  wonder  you  dream.  You  are  well  now,  but  that 
nio-ht  you  were  quite  out  of  your  senses.  Your  fancies 
are  but  the  remains  of  that  delirium.  Tlunk  no  more  of 
that  wretch ; he  is  probably  living  in  Pans,  after  the 
manner  of  his  kind.  Think  only  that  life  is  going  to  be 

calm  and  happy.” 

Anything  to  keep  the  knowledge  of  her  fatal  act  from 
her ! I forced  myself  to  talk  in  a light,  cheerful  manner. 
I jested  at  the  appearance  of  the  few  muffled-up  country 
people  whom  we  passed  on  the  road.  I pointed  out  the 
beauty  of  the  trees  ou  the  wayside,  each  branch  of  which 


76 


DARK  DAYS. 


bore  foliage  of  glistening  snow.  I did  all  I could  to  turn 
her  thoughts  into  other  channels — to  drive  that  strange 
questioning  look  from  her  eyes.  Right  glad  I felt  when 
we  were  at  last  in  the  train,  and  the  first  stage  of  our 
flight  an  accomplished  fact. 

Upon  reaching  London,  I drove  straight  to  the  hotel 
at  which  my  mother  was  staying.  It  was  one  of  those 
high-priced  respectable  private  hotels  in  Jermyn  Street. 
I engaged  rooms  for  my  sister  and  myself.  I sent 
Philippa  to  her  room  to  rest,  and  then  went  to  find  my 
mother.  In  another  minute  I was  in  her  arms,  and  ere 
half  an  hour  was  over  I had  told  her  Philippa’s  story, 
and  my  love  for  the  woman  on  whose  behalf  I besought 
her  protection. 

Yes,  I had  done  right  to  trust  to  her.  I knew  her 
noble  nature ; her  utter  freedom  from  the  petty  tram- 
mels of  society.  I knew  the  love  she  bore  her  son.  Let 
me  here  thank  her  once  more  for  what  she  did  for  me 
that  day. 

She  heard  all  my  outpourings  in  silence.  I told  her 
all,  save  two  things — the  name  of  the  man  who  had 
wronged  my  love,  and  the  fate  which  had  overtaken 
him.  I told  her,  as  I have  told  you,  how  I had  loved — 
how  I loved  Philippa ; how  I now  dared  to  hope  that  in 
time  to  come  my  love  would  be  rewarded.  I prayed 
her  to  take  my  poor  girl  to  her  heart,  and  by  treating 
her  as  a daughter  restore,  if  it  were  possible,  her  self-re- 
spect. 

My  mother  heard  me.  Her  sweet  face  grew  a shade 
paler.  Her  lips  quivered,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
I knew  all  that  was  passing  through  her  mind.  I knew 
how  proud  she  was  of  me,  and  what  great  things  she  had 


DABK  DAYS. 


77 


hoped  1 should  do  in  the  world.  She  was  a woman,  and, 
woman-like,  had  counted  upon  her  son’s  bettering  lnm- 
self  by  marriage ; but,  in  spite  of  all  this,  I knew  I was 
right  in  counting  upbn  her  aid.  Once  again,  my  sweet 
mother,  1 thank  you. 

She  rose.  “Let  me  see  the  woman  you  love.  VVlieie 
is  she  ? I will  go  to  her. 

“ She  is  here,  in  this  house.  Ah,  mother,  I knew  you 

would  do  this  for  me.”  ,,  , 

She  kissed  my  forehead.  “Bring  her  to  me,  she 

SElld.  » * « 

I went  out,  and  sent  word  to  Philippa  that  I wanted 

her.  She  soon  came  to  me.  She  had  removed  the  stains 

of  travel,  and,  although  pale,  looked  the  perfection  o 

graceful  beauty.  I led  her  to  my  mother’s  room  She 

stopped  short  as  she  saw  it  was  tenanted  by  a lady.  A 

quick  blush  crossed  her  cheek. 

“Philippa,  dearest,”  I said,  “this  is  my  mother.,  1 
have  told  her  all,  and  she  is  waiting  to  welcome  you 
Still  she  stood  motionless,  save  that  her  head  bent 
down  and  her  bosom  heaved.  My  mother  came  to  her 
side,  and,  placing  her  kind  arms  round  her,  whispered 
some  words  which  I neither  heard  nor  tried  to  hear. 
Philippa  broke  into  a storm  of  sobs,  and  for  some  mo- 
ments wept  on  my  mother’s  shoulder. 

Then  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  me,  and  my 
heart  leaped  at  the  expression  in  her  tearful  eyes. 
“ Basil,  iny  brother,  you  are  too  good  to  me ! she  ejacu- 

ktMv  mother  led  her  to  the  sofa,  and,  with  her  arms  still 
round  her, .sat  down  by  her  side.  I left  them,  knowing 
that  my  love  had  now  the  truest,  noblest  heart  to  sob 


78 


DARK  DATS. 

agairist;  the  quickest,  most  sympathetic  ear  to  listen  to 
the  tale  of  her  wrongs ; and  the  softest,  kindest  voice  to 
soothe  and  console  her. 

Ah!  how  happy  I should  have  felt,  could  that  one 
night’s  dark  work  have  been  undone — could  that  white 
tomb  forever  hold  its  ghastly  secret  I 


DAKK  days. 


79 


CHAPTER  Til. 

the  melting  of  the  SNOW. 

„ e 1ir  flight  toward  safety  accom- 

HHE  first  stage  of  our  mg  review  the 

L pUshed,  I sat  down  to  o myself. 

nation,  and  »o  take  suck  counsel  “ * „f  the  in- 

: t"nT  1-  beet  to  guard  against  or 

arn  aside  the  peril.  Mrs.  Wilson. 

Undoubtedly  the  ch  ef  person  to neat . ™ M 

!he  alone  knew  that  the  man  intend  to  ^ 

hat  night.  She  alone  ™e'v  “ The  ve,T  night  of 
d ration  and  I felt 

ais  death  would  be  fa  J man  was  identified  Mrs. 
rare  that  as  soon  as  tli  guest’s  sudden  de- 

Wilson  could  not  fail  to  assoc^  ,be  terrible  event. 

parture  and . Sl^eveLd  what  she  knew  or  suspected, 
The  moment  she  rev  ^ and  pursuit 

suspicion  must  poi  1 1 J J ’ J sick,  as,  think  how 

I tlTJ^  ~ no'  loop-hole  by  whioh  to  eseap* 

from  this  danger.  troubled  hut  little.  Upon 

About  secondary  t b ^ belieVe  that  my  stolid 
calm  ■ reconsideration,  right  conclur 

-sraliam  would  for  a moment  jump  at  the  ng 


80 


DARK  DATS. 


sion.  If  he  were  led  to  sn&pect  either  of  us,  it  would  be 
me,  not  Philippa ; and  I well  knew  that  he  was  so  much 
attached  to  me  that,  although  he  felt  certain  I had  done 
the  deed,  he  would  feel  equally  certain  that  I had  good 
and  proper  reasons  for  doing  it,  and  no  word  to  my  det- 
riment would  pass  his  reticent  lips.  No,  there  was  little 
to  fear  from  William.  v 

I had  blamed  myself  deeply  for  the  impulse  which  had 
urged  me  to  hurl  the  fatal  weapon  away.  Why  did  I not 
keep  it  and  bury  it  fathoms  deep  ? If  that  pistol  were 
found,  it  would  possibly  furnish  a clew  which  might  be 
followed  up,  and  undo  everything.  My  only  hope  was 
that  I had  thrown  it  to  some  spot  where  it  might  lie  for 
years  undiscovered,  until  all  association  between  it  and 
the  murder  had  disappeared. 

To . sum  up  briefly,  I was  bound  to  decide  that  the 
damning  circumstantial  evidence  which  could  be  fur- 
nished by  Mrs.  Wilson  drove  me  back  to  my  original 
idea.  There  was  no  chance  of  my  poor  Philippa’s  re- 
maining unaccused  or  unsuspected  of  the  deed  she  had 
unwittingly  done;  so  her  only  hope  of  safety— indeed, 

considering  all,  I may  also  say  my  only  hope  of  safety 

was  rapid  flight.  . We  must  gain  some  land  in  which  we 
could  dwell  without  fear  of  being  arrested.  What  land 
was  there  ? 

Many  a one.  The  date  of  my  story  is  before  1873, 
when  nearly  all  the  extradition  treaties  were  made.  At 
that  time  such  treaties  existed  with  only  two  foreign 
countries,  France  and  the  United  States  ; so  that  our 
choice  of  a resting-place  was  not  so  limited  as  those  who 
are  flying  from  the  clutches  of  the  law  find  it  to-day. 
However,  in  order  to  make  certain,  I paid  a visit  to  a legal 
friend  of  mine,  and,  by  quoting  a supposititious  case. 


DARK  DAYS. 


81 


! managed  to  acquire  a good  deal  of  information  respecting 
the  dealings  of  one  nation  with  another,  so  far  as  fugi- 
tives were  concerned. 

I found  that  although,  with  the  two  exceptions  above 
| named,  there  was  no  settled  international  law  on  the  sub- 
ject, there  was  a kind  of  unwritten  substitute,  which  was 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Comity  of  Nations.  Under 
this  code  of  courtesy,  a notorious  criminal,  who  had 
sought  refuge  in  the  arms  of  another  country,  was  not 
uncommonly,  although  there  was  no  law  under  which  he 
could  be  arrested,  given  up  to  his  pursuers,  by  being 
simply  driven  across  the  frontier  of  the  country  in  which 
he  had  hoped  to  find  security.  However,  I gathered  that 
this  so-called  comity  was  scarcely  expected  to  be  exercised 
by  the  most  friendly  state,  unless  the  fugitive  had  fled 
almost  red-handed,  and  so  placed  his  guilt  beyond  doubt. 
No  one  exactly  knew  how  far  this  obliging  expulsion 
might  be  counted  upon.  It  was  generally  supposed  to 
j be  decided  by  the  amount  of  influence  or  persuasion 
which  one  government  exercised  on  the  other. 

This  information  rather  upset  my  preconceived  ideas 
as  to  the  ease  with  which  safety  might  be  obtained ; but 
reflection  told  me  I had  little  to  fear.  The  case  against 
Philippa  could  be  nothing  more  than  one  of  suspicion. 
No  one,  not  even  I myself,  had  seen  the  deed  done.  A 
warrant  would,  no  doubt,  be  issued  for  her  arrest ; but  if 
our  flight  precluded  its  execution,  I did  not  believe  that 
any  government  would  put  itself  out  of  the  way  to  aid 
the  English  law.  There  was  no  one,  save  myself,  who 
could  positively  swear  that  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  had 
been  killed  by  Philippa. 

I learned  that  Spain  was  then,  even  as  it  is  now,  the  land 
safest  against  English  law.  Perhaps  the  reason  is  that 


82 


DARK  DATS. 


tlie  grave,  yet  at  times  hot-blooded,  Spaniard  reckons 
human  life  at  a lower  value  than  more  northerly  nations. 
Anyway,  it  was  to  Spain  that  I turned  my  eyes ; Spain 
that  I resolved  to  reach  without  an  hour’s  unenforced 
delay. 

The  very  next  day  I broached  the  subject  of  foreign 
travel  to  my  mother.  Although  so  short  a time  had 
passed  since  they  first  met,  I was  overjoyed  to  see  the  . ; 
terms  upon  which  she  and  Philippa  stood.  The  girl  | 
seemed  to  cling  to  her  as  to  a natural  protector — seemed  | 
ready  to  install  her  in  the  place  of  the  mother  she  had' 
lost.  After  all,  the  love  of  her  own  sex  is  indispensable  v 
to  a woman’s  happiness.  It  did  my  heart  good  to  see 
the  two  together.  Philippa  talked  to  my  mother  as  she 
had  never  yet  talked  to  me ; and  I knew  that  when  the 
day  came  upon  which  I should  ask  for  the  only  reward 
I wanted,  my  mother’s  kindness  to  the  forsaken  and  : 
shame- stricken  girl  would  be  an  advocate  that  pleaded 
strongly  in  favor  of  my  suit. 

But  could  it  ever  be  ? Could  we  know  happiness  in 
the  face  of  that  dark  night’s  work  ? Ah  me  ! my  heart 
sank  as  I thought  that  any  day  might  bring  the  crushing 
blow.  Let  there  be  no  delay.  Let  me  not  blame  myself 
hereafter  for  any  negligence  or  false  security.  Let  us 
away  from  the  peril. 

Mother,”  I said,  “ will  you  come  abroad  with  Phi- 
lippa and  me?” 

“ Abroad,  Basil ! I have  only  just  come  home.” 

“ Ho  matter ; come  with  us  at  once.  Let  us  go  to 
some  place  where  there  is  warmth  and  bright  sunshine. 
Let  us  go  to  Spain.” 

“ Spain ! why  Spain  ? Besides,  surely  Philippa  is  not 
fit  for  a long  journey !” 


DARK  DATS. 


83 


« Jt  will  do  her  good.  Her  recollections  of  this  eoun- 

I try  are  but  sad  ones.” 

« Well,  in  a week  or  two  I will  see  about  it.” 

“ Ho,  at  once.  Let  us  start  to-morrow  or  the  next 
day.  Mother,  I ask  it  as  a favor.” 

« Give  me  some  good  reason,  Basil,  and  I will  do  as 

p you  wish.” 

“ Look  at  me,  and  you  will  see  the  reason.  Cannot 
you  see  that  X am  ill,  w orn  out,  nerv ous  2 I must  have 
a change,  and  at  once.” 

She  gazed  at  me  with  solicitude.  “ Yes,  I know  you 

are  not  well ; but  why  Spain  2” 

(l  A.  whim — a sick  man’s  fancy.  Perhaps  because  it  is 
Philippa’s  father’s  country  put  it  into  my  head.  Mother, 
tell  me,  how  do  you  like  her  2” 

u She  is  the  woman  you  love ; she  is  very  beautiful  ; 
she  has  been  cruelly  treated;  she  is  blameless;  to  say 
more  after  so  short  an  acquaintance  would  be  exaggera- 
tion.” 

« You  will  come  to  Spain  with  me — with  her  2” 

She  kissed  me  and  gave  in  to  my  whim.  Then  I 

* ' ' • 

sought  Philippa. 

« yjy  mother  is  going  to  take  us  abroad,”  I said  with 
a smile,  which  was  forced,  as  all  my  smiles  now  were. 
“ She  will  see  to  everything  for  you.” 

« She  is  kind — she  is  sweet,”  said  Philippa,  clasping 
her  hands.  “Basil,  I am  beginning  to  worship  your 
mother.  But  why  are  we  going  abroad  2” 

“ To  get  away  from  sad  thoughts,  for  one  thing ; for 
another,  because  I feel  ill.” 

She  gave  me  a quick  look  of  apprehension  which 
brought  the  flush  to  my  cheek.  “ Oh,  let  us  go  at  once ! 
she  cried.  “ Let  us  leave  this  land  of  ice  and  I will  nurse 


84 


DAKK  DATS. 


you  and  make  you  well.  Where  are  we  going  ? When 
are  we  going*” 

“ To  Spain — to-morrow  or  the  next  day.” 

She  looked  at  me  with  the  troubled  gaze  which  I had 
so  often  noticed.  “ Basil,”  she  said,  “you  are  doing  this 
for  my  sake.” 

“ And  my  own,  I fear.” 

“ I threw  away  your  love — I spoiled  your  life.  I came 
to  you  a shamed  woman.  You  saved  me ! You  did  not 
scorn  me.  You  brought  me  to  your  mother’s  arms. 
Basil,  may  Grod  requite  you : I never  can.” 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  left  the  room  hastily. 

It  was  well  I settled  the  matter  of  the  foreign  journey 
then.  That  afternoon  the  wind  changed  and  a thaw  set 
in — a thaw  that  slowly  but  surely  drew  away  the  thick 
white  veil  which  covered  the  whole  of  England. 

That  night  I had  little  sleep.  I could  do  nothing  but 
lie  awake  and  picture  that  white  tomb  slowly  melting 
away,  until  the  white  face  beneath  peered  out  of  it  and 
made  the  dread  secret  known  to  all.  Who  would  be  the 
first  to  discover  it?  Doubtless  some  country  man  or 
woman  passing  that  way  in  the  gray  of  the  morning.  I 
drew  pictures  of  the  discoverer’s  horror — the  shriek  of 
terror  he  or  she  would  give.  I scarcely  dared  to  close 
my  eyes ; for  I knew  that  if  I dreamed,  my  dreams  would 
take  me  to  stand  over  the  snowdrift,  and  force  me  to 
watch  it  melting  away ! It  seemed  to  me  that  until  Phi- 
lippa was  out  of  the  range  of  pursuit  I should  not  sleep 
again. 

Faster  and  faster,  now  it  had  once  begun,  the  thaw 
went  on.  Warm  wind,  heavy  rain  the  next  day,  helped 
it.  That  tremendous  fall  of  snow  had,  indeed,  been  the 


DARK  DAYS. 


85 


last  effort  of  the  winter.  I dreaded  what  I might  see  in 

the  morning’s  papers.  , 

For  it  was  the  third  day  from  that  on  which  I spoke 
about  going  abroad ; yet  we  were  still  in  London.  When 
it  really  came  to  making  preparations  for  the  projected 
trip  there  were  a thousand  and  one  things  to  be  done. 
There  was  the  needful  passport  to  be  obtained;  my 
mother  had  many  purchases  to  make  for  both  Philippa 
and  herself.  She  was  now  fully  contented  with  the  pros- 
pect  of  a long  sojourn  on  the  continent ; but  she  liked 
travelling  in  comfort,  and  objected  very  much  to  being 
hurried.  So  it  was  that,  in  spite  of  the  pressing  need  for 
immediate  flight,  we  were  still  in  London. 

The  dangerous  delay  made  me  nervous,  excitable,  and 
ill-tempered.  This  state  of  mind  was  not  without  bene- 
fit to  our  cause,  as  my  manner  as  well  as  my  looks  fully 
convinced  my  mother  that  my  own  health  was  the  sole 
object  of  the  journey.  So,  like  a good  creature,  she  set 
to  work  in  thorough  earnest  to  get  everything  ready  for 

our  departure.  n 

To-morrow  morning  we  were  to  start.  I prayed  Heaven 

that  it  might  not  be  too  late ; that  the  next  twenty-four 
hours  might  pass  without  what  I dreaded  taking  place. 
For  I knew  that  by  now  that  ghastly  object  on  the  road- 
side must  be  lying  with  the  light  of  day  on  its  pale  face  ! 

With  an  effort  I opened  the  morning’s  paper,  and  ran 
hastily  up  and  down  the  columns.  Wliat  cared  I for 
politics,  foreign  news,  or  money-market  intelligence. 
Here  was  the  one  paragraph  which  riveted  all  my 
tion.  The  white  tomb  had  given  up  its  secret ! Head . 
To  me  those  words  were  written  in  letters  of  fire ! 

“Horrible  Discovert  near  Rodino.— The  melting 
of  the  snow  has  brought  to  light  what  to  all  appearances 


86 


DARK  DAYS. 


is  a fearful  crime.  Yesterday  afternoon  a laborer  walk* 
ing  on  the  highway  discovered  the  body  of  a gentleman 
lying  by  the  roadside.  His  death  had  been  caused  by  a 
pistol-shot.  It  is  supposed  that  it  must  have  occurred  on 
the  night  of  the  great  snow-storm,  and  that  the  body  has 
lain  ever  since  under  the  snow,  which  had  drifted  to  the 
depth  of  some  feet.  The  facts  that  death  must  liavs 
been  instantaneous,  and  that  no  weapon  can  be  found 
near  the  spot,  do  away  with  the  theory  of  suicide.  Let- 
ters and  papers  found  upon  the  corpse  tend  to  show  it  to 
be  that  of  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand,  Bart.  The  unfortunate 
gentleman’s  friends  have  been  communicated  with,  and 
the  inquest  will  be  opened  to-morrow.” 

For  some  minutes  I sat  like  one  stunned.  Inevitable 
as  it  was  that  the  discovery  should  be  made,  the  shock 
seemed  scarcely  lightened  by  the  foreknowledge ; the 
danger  seemed  no  less  terrible.  Oh,  that  we  had  started 
yesterday — were  even  to  start  to-day!  What  might  not 
happen  before  to-morrow  morning!  My  first  impulse 
was  to  go  to  my  mother  and  beg  her  to  hasten  our  depar- 
ture ; but  reflection  showed  me  how  unwise  this  course 
would  be.  I should  alarm  her — alarm  Philippa ! I could 
give  no  reason.  My  one  longing  was  to  keep  the  news 
from  my  poor  love.  Let  her  read  that  paragraph,  and 
who  could  answer  for  the  consequences  ? Looking  as  a 
medical  man  at  her  case,  I knew  that  there  was  some- 
thing about  that  night  which  troubled  her ; some  dream, 
or  semblance  of  dream,  to  which,  fortunately,  she  could 
as  yet  give  no  coherence.  Let  her  learn  that  Sir  Mervyn 
Ferrand  had  ever  since  that  night  been  lying  dead  where 
she  met  him,  the  fearful  truth  must  come  to  her.  No! 
not  a word  to  excite  her  suspicion.  My  task  was  a two- 
fold one.  I had  to  save  her  not  only  from  what  I sup 


DARK  DAYS. 


87 


pose  I must  call  justice,  but  also  from  lierself.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  the  latter  was  the  hardest  part  of  my  work ; 
but  I would  do  it— I swore  I would  do  it.  I would  keep 
watch  and  ward,  to  see  that  nothing  reached  her— that 
she  heard  nothing  which  could  awaken  memories  of  those 

mercifully  absent  hours.  _ . 

I tore  the  paper  to  pieces  and  burned  it.  I think  ot 
all  my  dark  days  that  one  was  the  one  I would  be  least 
willing  to  pass  again.  I trembled  at  every  footstep  on 
the  stairs.  Any  man  who  paused  for  a moment  outside 
our  windows  sent  a cold  chill  over  me.  And  in  the 
midst  of  my  misery  I had  to  wear  a cheerful  face,  and 
talk  to  Philippa  and  my  mother  about  the  pleasures  of 
our  projected  journey  ! Ah  ! if  we  only  reached  the  end 
of  it  in  safety,  the  pleasure  would  not  be  altogether 

imaginary.  . xl 

Once  again  I say,  if  you  cannot  feel  with  me,  throw 

my  tale  aside.  Heaven  knows  it  is  a sombre  one  ! I 
was  breaking  the  law ; concealing  what  the  law  calls  a 
crime ; doing  all  I could  to  save  the  criminal.  But  the 
criminal  was  Philippa,  and  I loved  her  ! I myself  would 
have  stood  face  to  face  with  Sir  Marvyn  Ferrand,  and 
have  freely  given  my  own  life  if  I could  have  assured  his 
dying  like  the  dog  he  was.  Why  then  should  I blame 
Philippa,  who  had  done  in  her  temporary  madness  what 
I would  have  done  in  cold  blood?  Yet  why  trouble  to 
extenuate?  I loved  her  ! Those  words  sum  up  every- 
thing. . . 

The  morning  dawned.  No  fatal  messenger  had  ar- 
rived. I glanced  hastily  at  the  papers,  which,  however, 
contained  no  more  information  about  _ the  tragedy. 
Shortly  after  ten  o’clock  we  started  to  drive  to  Charing 
Cross.  The  rattle  of  wheels  over  thc  stones  seemed  to 


88 


DARK  DATS. 


send  fresh  life  through  mj  veins.  We  were  off  on  the 
road  to  safety. 

We  started  in  plenty  of  time,  as  I wished  to  call  at  my 
bankers’  on  the  way.  It  was  my  intention  to  take  with 
me  a large  sum  in  gold.  Notes  of  any  kind  could  be 
traced,  but  the  bright  sovereigns  would  tell  no  tale.  1 
changed  my  check,  and  while  doing  so  asked  if  there 
were  any  letters  for  me.  Several  persons  addressed  let- 
ters to  me  at  my  bankers’.  The  spruce  cashier  sent  to  in- 
quire, and,  with  my  bag  of  gold,  passed  under  the  brass- 
wire  railing  a letter  with  a woman’s  handwriting  on  the 
envelope.  I thrust  it  into  my  pocket,  to  read  at  my 
leisure. 

We  travelled  by  the  tidal  train  for  Paris,  via  Folke- 
stone and  Boulogne.  It  was  not  the  pleasantest  weather 
in  the  world  for  a journey ; but  I wrapped  my  charges  up 
warmly,  and  did  all  I could  to  mitigate  the  hardships  of 
the  voyage,  undertaken  ostensibly  for  the  sake  of  my 
health.  My  mother,  who  was  by  now  an  experienced 
and  seasoned  traveller,  settled  herself  down  to  the  jour- 
ney, although  she  little  guessed  how  short  the  rest  I 
meant  to  give  her  until  we  reached  our  destination.  She 
laughingly  protested  against  the  cruelty  of  dragging  an 
old  woman  like  herself  away  from  England  just  as  she 
had  returned  to  it ; but  there  was  that  in  her  voice  and 
manner  which  told  me  she  would  fcr  my  sake  make  a far 
greater  sacrifice  of  comfort  than  this. 

I thought  that  Philippa’s  spirits,  like  mine,  rose  as  we 
left  London  behind  us.  She  smiled  at  my  sallies  and 
feeble  attempts  at  making  merry,  which,  now  that  we 
were  fairly  on  our  road  to  safety,  were  not  quite  so 
forced  as  they  had  been  during  the  last  few  days.  She 
listened  with  interest  to  the  pictures  I drew — imaginary 


DARK  DATS. 


89 


ones,  of  course— of  the  beauties  of  the  south;  and  I was 
glad*  to  believe  that  the  thought  of  visiting  what  might 
almost  be  called  her  native  land  was  beginning  to  awaken 
her  interest.  Only  let  me  be  able  to  show  her  that  life 
.could  still  promise  a pleasant  future,  and  the  moody 
memories  of  the  past  months  might  be  banished  forever. 

I am  sure  that  no  one  who  could  have  seen  us  that 
morning  would  have  dreamed  that  out  of  that  party  of 
three,  consisting  of  a comfortable,  pleasant-looking  Eng- 
lish matron,  a strangely  beautiful  girl,  and  myself,  two 
were  flying  from  the  hands  of  justice.  Our  appearance 
was  certainly  such  as  to  disarm  all  suspicion. 

“But  where  are  we  going?”  asked  my  mother.  “I 
object  to  go  wandering  about  without  knowing  where  our 
pilgrimage  is  to  end.” 

“We  are  going  to  Paris  first,  then  to  Spain  to  wher- 
ever we  can  find  the  warmth  and  sunshine  which  is 
necessary  to  my  existence.  If  we  can’t  find  them  in 
Spain,  we  will  cross  over  to  Africa,  and,  if  needful,  go 
down  to  the  Equator.” 

“ Then  you  young  people  will  have  to  go  alone.  I 
draw  the  line  of  my  good-nature  at  Europe. 

I glanced  at  Philippa.  Her  long  curved  lashes  hid  her 
eyes ; but  a tell-tale  blush  was  on  her  cheek.  I knew 
that  the  day  was  not  so  very  distant  when  she  would 
answer  my  appeal  as  I wished.  I knew  that,  could  I but 
sweep  away  the  record  .of  that  one  night,  all  might  yet 
be  well  with  her.  Oh,  that  she  may  never  recall  what  I 
aione  know ! 

As  we  were  nearing  Folkestone  I remembered  the 
letter  which  had  been  given  me  at  the  bank.  I drew  it 
from  my  breast,  intending  to  read  it ; but  the  sight  of 
ths*  Boding  post-mark  on  the  outside  made  me  change 


90 


DAKK  DAYS. 


iny  intention.  I remembered  Mrs.  Wilson’s  half  promise 
to  send  me  some  communication.  I longed  and  yet  I 
dreaded  to  break  the  seal.  I felt  it  would  be  better  for 
me  to  read  that  letter  alone.  Whatever  might  be  the 
tenor  of  its  contents,  I was  sure  it  had  some  bearing  on 
Philippa’s  relations  with  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand. 

We  were  soon  on  board  the  steamer  and  under  weigh. 
Although  the  Arctic  rigors  of  the  last  three  weeks  had 
departed,  the  air  on  the  sea  was  too  keen  to  make  the 
channel  passage  an  enjoyable  one.  I persuaded  my 
mother  and  Philippa  to  take  refuge  in  the  saloon;  and 
then  I found  a quiet  spot  where  I was  able  to  read  my 
letter  without  fear  of  interruption,  or  of  betraying  myself 
by  the  emotion  its  contents  might  cause.  It  was  well  I 
did  so,  for  the  first  words  blanched  my  cheek.  The 
letter  began  abruptly,  so  : 

“I  know  or  guess  all.  I know  why  Sir  Mervyn  Fer- 
rand did  not  reach  my  house  that  night.  I know  the 
reason  for  her  strange  excited  state.  I know  why  she 
left  my  home  before  you  came  to  seek  her.  I know  how 
he  met  with  the  death  he  deserved. 

“ Ah ! she  is  braver  than  I am.  She  has  done  what 
years  ago  I swore  I would  do;  and  yet  I had  not  the 
courage.  I was  base  enough  to  forego  revenge  for  the 
sake  of  the  beggarly  maintenance  he  offered  me — for  the 
sake,  perhaps,  of  my  children.  I sank  low  enough  to  be- 
come his  tool — to  do  as  he  bade  me,  even  to  taking  under 
my  roof  the  woman  who  thought  herself  his  wife.  Yes, 
she  has  been  braver  than  I.  But  her  wrongs  were  greater 
than  mine ; for  I had  but  myself  to  blame  for  being  in 
such  a degraded  position  that  he  could  throw  me  aside 
like  an  old  glove.  He  never  married  me. 

“ Fear  nothing  for  your  sister,  if  she  be  your  sister. 


DARK  DAYS.  91 

Tell  lier  my  lips  are  sealed  to  the  death ; and  for  the  sake 
of  her  brave  act  tell  her  this: 

« Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  first  wife  died  on  the  ISth  of 
June,  186- — , three  jnonths  before  the  day  on  which  he 
married  your  sister.  She  died  at  Liverpool,  at  No.  5 
Silver  Street.  She  was  buried  in  the  cemetery,  under  the 
name  of  Lncy  Ferrand.  She  has  friends  alive ; it  will  be 
easy  to  prove  that  she  was  the  woman  whom  he  married. 
Her  maiden  name  was  King.  He  hated  her.  They 
parted.  He  gave  her  a sum  of  money  on  condition  that 
she  never  called  herself  his  wife.  He  lost  sight  of  her. 
I never  did.  For  years  I hoped  she  would  die,  and  that 
he  would  marry  me.  She  died  too  late  for  the  hope  to 
be  realized.  I told  him  of  her  death  ; but  I changed  the 
date.  I would  not  tell  him  where  she  died.  Part  of  his 
object  in  coming  to  Boding  that  night  was,  to  endeavor 
to  wring  the  information  from  me.  He  would  never 
have  had  it.  No  other  woman  should  have  been  his  wife 
so  long  as  I could  stop  it. 

“ Now  that  he  is  dead,  you  can  tell  your  brave  sister 
that  she  may;  if  she  likes,  take  the  name,  title,  and  what 
wealth  she  can  claim.  Fear  nothing  from,  me ; I will  bt 
silent  as  death.” 


92 


DAKK  DATS. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


FLIGHT. 


READ  the  woman’s  letter  aorain  and  a^ain — read  it 

c o 


with  feelings  in  wliicli  joy  and  disgust  were  strangely 
mingled;  but  the  former  was  the  predominant  sensation. 
In  the  first  place,  if  Mrs.  Wilson  kept  her  promise  of 
secrecy,  it  seemed  to  me  that  all  danger  of  suspicion  fall- 
ing upon  Philippa  was  removed.  There  would  be  no  one 
else  to  make  known  the  fact,  that  upon  the  night  of  Sir 
Mervyn’s  death  a wronged,  distracted  woman  left  her 
home — a woman  whose  life’s  happiness  had  been  clouded 
by  the  villain’s  treacherous  act — a woman  of  strong 
passions,  who  in  her  temporary  delirium  might  easily  be 
turned  to  take  such  vengeance  for  which  I,  at  least,  Held 
her  quite  unaccountable.  If  I could  but  feel  sure  of  the 
silence  of  the  one  person  whom  I dreaded,  we  might  even 
return  to  London,  and  fear  nothing.  'I  wavered.  After 
all  there  is  something  contemptible  in  flight.  Should  I 
trust  to  Mrs.  Wilson’s  promise,  and  return  with  my  com- 
panions by  the  next  boat  from  Boulogne? 

Ho,  a thousand  times  no  ! Philippa’s  welfare  is  far  too 
precious  to  me  to  be  trusted  in  the  hands  of  one  excitable 
Woman — a woman,  moreover,  who  has  wrongs  of  her  own 
calling  for  vengeance.  To-morrow  her  mind  may  change, 
rod  instead  of  furthering  our  safety,  she  may  be  urging 
Vi~  ohe  pursuit.  Let  me  trust  no  one  save  myself. 


}***;?#■ 


DARK  DAYS. 


93 


For  my  love’s  sake,  I was  overjoyed  to  hear  that,  sup- 
posing the  woman’s  statement  and  date  were  correct, 
Philippa  was  the  dead  mail’s  lawful  wife.  Not  that  this 
fact  for  one  moment  palliated  the  guilt  of  his  intention, 
or  lessened  the  contempt  and  hatred  I bore  toward  him ; 
not  that  it  changed  in  my  eyes  by  one  iota  my  love  A 
position.  Married  or  unmarried,  to  me  she  was  all  that 
a woman  could  be.  Though  a blackguard’s  craft  had 
wrought  what  would  be  her  shame  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  though  her  hands  were  unconsciously  red  with  a 
man’s  blood,  to  me  she  was  pure  as  a vestal,  innocent  as 
a child. 

Tet  for  her  sake  the  newTs  gladdened  me.  I knew  that 
if  ever  the  time  should  come  when  I could  place  proofs 
in  her  hands  that  she  was  a wife — that  she  could,  if  she 
chose,  bear  her  worthless  husband’s  name,  and  face  the 
world  without  fear  of  scorn,  the  restoration  of  her  self- 
respect  would  bring  with  it  a joy  which  only  a woman 
can  rightly  comprehend.  And  Philippa,  with  all  her 
pride  and  passion,  was  a true  woman,  full  of  the  softness 
and  delicate  dread  of  shame  which  characterizes  the  best 
of  her  sex. 

Yet  when  should  I be  able  to  tell  her?  Whenever  I 
did  so  I must  also  reveal  the  fact  of  her  husband’s  being 
$ lead,  and  my  doing  k)  must  bring  the  whole  story  of  his 
death  to  her  knowledge.  I trembled  as  I thought  what 
this  might  mean.  Surely  its  dramatic  surroundings  must 
suggest  something  to  her  mind — must  bring  back  the 
night  and  its  horrors  ; must,  in  fact,  tell  her  what  she  had 
done  in  her  madness  ! Rather  than  risk  this,  I must  let 
her  continue  to  bear  the  cruel  weight  of  what  she  thought 
her  shame.  My  aim  must  be  to  make  her  believe  that 
Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  is  still  alive,  and  troubling  nothing 


94 


DARK  DAYS. 


as  to  what  has  become  of  the  woman  whom  he  once  falsely 
swore  to  love  and  cherish  until  death,  I cursed  the 
wretch’s  memory  as  I thought  of  him. 

The  sending  of  Philippa  to  live  under  the  charge  of  one 
i>f  his  own  discarded  mistresses  was  but  another  proof  of 
llie  man’s  revolting  cynicism.  Mrs.  Wilson’s  acceptance 
of  the  charge  showed  me  to  what  a level  a woman  could 
sink.  It  told  me,  moreover,  that  in  spite  of  her  letter 
she  was  not  to  be  trusted.  A woman  who  could  lend 
herself  to  her  former  lover’s  purposes  in  such  a way  as 
this  must  have  parted  with  every  atom  of  pride.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  woman  and  the  man  were  well  j 
matched  in  baseness. 

Still  her  letter  lifted  a load  from  my  mind.  I felt 
that  for  a while  there  could  be  no  pursuit ; yet  I resolved 
to  risk  nothing,  but  hurry  on  with  all  possible  speed,  j 
Only  when  we  crossed  the  frontier  of  Spain  should  I 
sleep  in  peace. 

All  researches,  with  a view  to  obtaining  evidence  of 
the  first  Lady  Ferrand’s  death,  I postponed  indefinitely. 
Some  day,  if  all  went  well,  I would  return  to  England 
and  procure  the  documents  necessary  to  prove  the  valid- 
ity of  Philippa’s  marriage.  There  was  no  pressing  ^ 
hurry.  As  to  any  money  which  should  be  hers,  never  ! 
with  ray  consent  should  she  touch  a penny  which  had  be- 
longed to  the  dead  man.  . 

Protracted  as  my  meditations  seem  on  paper,  they  were 
in  reality  much  longer ; indeed,  they  were  not  at  an  end 
when  the  boat  steamed  in  Boulogne  harbor.  I went  in 
search  of  my  companions,  who,  I was  glad  to  find,  had  - 
borne  the  voyage  well.  We  were  soon  in  the  train,  and, 
without  any  event  occurring  worth  recording,  at  eight 
o’clock  stood  on  the  Gare  du  Nord,  Paris. 


DARK  DATS. 


95 


We  drove  through  the  brightly  lit  streets  to  the  Hotel 
du  Louvre.  The  stains  of  travel  washed  away,  my 
mother  gave  a sigh  of  satisfaction  as  she  seated  herself  at 
the  dinner-table.  Like  a sensible  woman,  she  was  no 
despiser  of  the  good  things  of  this  life.  There  were  other 
late  diners  in  the  great  coffee-room,  and  many  a head 
was  turned  to  look  at  the  beautiful  girl  who  sat  on  my 
right  hand  ; for  every  day  which  brought  her  new  health 
and  strength,  brought  also  to  my  love  an  instalment  of 
her  former  rich  beauty.  In  a very  short  time  she  would 
be  to  all  appearances  the  Philippa  of  old. 

“How  long  shall  we  stay  in  Paris,  Basil?”  asked  my 

mother. 

“It  is  now  half-past  nine;  our  train  starts  at  8.45  in 
the  morning.  Calculate  the  time.” 

“ Oh,  nonsense ! It  is  years  since  I have  been  in  Paris. 
I want  to  look  at  the  shops.  So  does  Philippa,  I am 
sure.” 

“My  dear  mother,  the  man,  much  more  the  woman, 
who  lingers  in  Paris  is  lost.  If  you  are  going  elsewhere, 
the  only  way  is  to  go  straight  through,  or  else  you  get 
no  further.  I have  proved  this,  and  mean  to  run  no 
risk.” 

“ But  remember  we  are  only  weak  womep.  This  poor 
child  is  far  from  strong.” 

She  smiled  at  Philippa,  whose  eyes  thanked  her  for  the 


affectionate  appellation. 

“Don’t  be  merciless,  Basil,”  she  continued;  “give  us 
at  least  one  day.” 

“Not  one.  I am  just  going  to  look  after  a courier,  so 
that  you  may  travel  in  all  possible  comfort.” 

My  mother  seemed  almost  annoyed,  and  again  said  X 
was  merciless.  liV^hat  would  she  have  said  had  she  known 


06 


DARK  DAYS. 


that,  unless  I had  received  that  letter,  instead  of  going  te 
our  present  comfortable  quarters,  we  should  have  driven 
to  the  Orleans  Railway,  and  taken  the  first  train  to  the 
south?  How  little  she  knew — how  little,  I trusted,  Phi- 
lippa knew — from  what  we  were  flying! 

I felt  I must  give  my  mother  some  reason  for  my 
haste ; so,  before  going  in  quest  of  my  courier,  I took 
her  aside. 

“ It  is  not  well  for  Philippa  to  stay  in  Paris,”  I said. 

“ Some  one  whom  she  ought  not  to  meet  was  here  a short 
time  ago.” 

I blamed  myself  for  the  deception ; but  what  could  I 
do?  Alas!  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  life,  which  once 
was  fearlessly  open  to  the  inspection  of  all,  was  now  full 
of  little  else  save  deceptions.  Should  I ever  again  be  my 
true  self? 

My  mother  raised  no  further  objection.  I found  a 
courier — a bearded  gentleman  of  commanding  presence, 
who  spoke  every  European  language  with  impartial  im- 
perfection. I gave  him  instructions  to  see  to  everything 
the  next  morning ; to  collect  our  luggage,  save  the  small 
quantity  we  carried  with  us,  and  to  register  it  through  to 
Burgos.  I had  no  particular  reason  for  choosing  Burgos, 
but  it  seemed  a convenient  place  at  which  to  take  our  . 
first  thorough  rest. 

The  next  day’s  journey  was  a dull,  dreary,  wearisome 
affair.  My  companions  had  not  shaken  off  the  fatigue 
of  the  previous  day,  and  now  that  I felt  Philippa’s  safety 
was,  comparatively  speaking,  assured,  a reaction  set  in 
with  me.  No  wonder  ! I shudder  now  as  I think  of  the 
strain  to  which  both  body  and  mind  had  been  subjected 
during  the  last  fortnight.  I was  moody  and  listless. 
The  air  was  full  of  fog  and  mist.  The  so-called  express 


DAiJK  DATS. 


$7 


train  ponnded  along  after  the  well-known  style  of  French 
railways.  Orleans,  Blois,  Tours,  Poictiers,  Angoul&me, 
Contras,  and  other  stations  passed  me  as  one  in  a dream. 
The  dull  day  crept  on  until  dark  evening  was  upon  us, 
and  we  were  all  thoroughly  glad  when  our  day’s  journey 

ended  at  Bordeaux.  _ 

My  mother,  who  was  rather  great  at  guide-books,  had 
beguiled  part  of  the  journey  by  a Murray,  which  some- 
Jiow  made  its  appearance  from  her  travelling-bag.  As 
she  knew  we  were  to  sleep  at  Bordeaux  she  had  been 
laying  down  the  law  as  to  what  we  were  to  look  at.  "We 
were  to  see  the  curious  high  wooden  fifteenth-eentury 
houses  of  the  old  town ; the  cathedral,  with  its  fine  tow- 
s' ers  5 the  very  old  churches  of  St.  Croix  and  St,  Seurin, 
and*  a variety  of  other  interesting  objects.  It  needed  all 
I the  assurance  I possessed,  all  the  Invalid’s  querulousness 
| and  insistance  I could  assume,  to  induce  her  to  consent 
: to  resume  our  journey  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
Even  Philippa  pleaded  for  delay,  and  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  she  thought  I was  using  my  mother  unfairly. 
But  I was  firm.  If  I could  I would  have  hurried  on  by 
the  midnight  train.  Anyway,  now  that  we  were  within 
a few  hours’  journey  of  the  frontier  and  of  safety,  I 
would  leave  no  more  than  I could  help  to  chance. 

So,  in  the  early  morning,  I got  my  party  together  and 
before  it  was  light  led  them  to  the  train.  I believe  that 
by  now  my  mother  looked  upon  me  as  rather  out  of  my 
senses.  She  frankly  owned  she  could  not  see  the  neces* 
- sity  for  making  such  a toil  out  of  what  might  be  a 
pleasure.  She  little  knew  that  nothing  could  have  made 
that  journey  a pleasure  to  me;  that  even  finding  Philip- 
pa’s  eyes  now  and  again  fixed  on  my  face  with  what  X 
almost  dared  to  think  was  tender  interest — that  even  tha 


98 


DARK  DATS. 


blush  which  crossed  her  cheek  when  I caught  thc»« 
glances— was  not  sufficient  to  reward  me  for  my  anxiety. 

A slow,  a painfully  slow  train.  Innumerable  stoppages.' 
A country- which  under  the  circumstances  would  have 
given  me  no  interest  even  if  we  had  been  in  summer  in- 
stead of  winter  j and  then,  after  nearly  five  hours’  slow 
travelling,  Bayonne  at  last.  Bayonne,  with  its  strong 
fortifications.  Bayonne,  with  the  welcome  Pyrenees 
towering  above  it.  In  less  than  two  hours  we  should  be 
in  Spain. 

A curious  dread  seized  me — a presentiment  so  strong 
that  ever  since  then  I have  lost  faith  in  presentiments. 
Something  seemed  to  tell  me  that  all  my  efforts  had 
been  in  vain ; that  at  the  frontier  there  would  be  certain  ; 
intelligence  received  which  would  lead  to  our  arrest ; that 
Philippa,  with  one  foot,  as  it  were,  in  the  land  of  refuge,  1 
would  fie  seized  and  carried  back  to  face  the  horrors  and  I 
the  shame  of  a trial  for  murder.  It  was,  as  events 
showed,  an  absurd  fancy,  and  only  the  increasing  tension 
of  my  nerves  can  account  for  the  hold  it  gained  upon  me. 

I grew  so  pale,  trembled  so  in  every  limb,  that  my 
companions  were  thoroughly  alarmed.  We  had  brandy 
with  us,  which  was  duly  administered  to  me.  After 
awhile  I recovered,  and  although  the  fear  was  still  with 
me,  sat  with  the  stoicism  of  an  Indian  at  the  stake,  await- 
ing what  might  happen  at  the  frontier.  I had  done  all 
I could.  If,  at  the  last  moment,  disaster  overtook  us,  I 
had  at  least  striven  by  every  means  within  my  power  to 
avert  it. 

We  have  passed  Biarritz,  the  merry  bright  watering- 
place.  We  have  passed  Hendaye,  the  French  frontier 
station.  We  leave  the  towering  Pyrenees  on  our  left. 
We  are  at  Irun,  where  all  baggage  must  be  jealously 


DARK  DATS. 


93 


scrutinized.  We  are  in  Spain ! Nobod y lias  troubled  us, 
No  suspicious-looking  stranger  lias  watched  ns.  The 
stoppage  has  been  long,  for  the  custom-house  officers  are 
annoyingly  particular  in  the  discharge  of  their  duty; 
but  our  noble-looking  courier  has  saved  us  all  personal 
trouble.  He  has  done  us  yeoman’s  service.  At  last  we 
are  in  another  train,  a train  which  runs  on  a line  of  an- 
other gauge.  The  very  time  of  day  has  changed.  W e 
have  lost  or  gained — I forget  which — some  twenty  min- 
utes. We  now  count  by  Madrid  time.  We  are  fairly  on 
Spanish  ground,  and  I have  saved  my  love.  Saved  her 
from  others — now  to  save  her  from  herself.  Never, 
never  shall  she  know  the  secret  of  that  dark  night.  We 
will  speed  away  to  the  south— to  the  sun  ; the  color ; the 
brightness ; the  flowers.  All  shall  be  forgotten.  The 
dark  remembrance  shall  be  swept  from  my  mind.  I will 
call  it  a dream.  I will  win  Philippa’s  love — the  love  that 
I dare  to  believe  is  already  almost  mine.  We  will  live 
forever  in  bright,  sunny,  glowing  lands.  Who  cares  for 
dull,  dark,  dismal  England  ? Have  we  not  youth, 
wealth,  and  oh,  blessed  word!  love?  Before  my  love 
and  me  lie  years  and  years  of  sweetness  and  joy.  Shake 
off  black  gloom  and  be  merry,  Basil  North.  You  have 
conquered  fate ! 

We  have  passed  St.  Sebastiam  The  sluggish  train  is 
wearily  winding  up  the  valley  of  the  Urumea.  We  are 
/ in  wild  and  glorious  scenery.  The  railway  is  carried  at  a 
great  elevation,  from  which  we  get  now  and  again  peeps 
of  far-away  valleys.  Yes,  I could  now  find  time  to  ad- 
mire the  wonderful  scenery  which  lasted  until  we  passed 
Miranda. 

My  mood  changed  with  the  country.  I laughed ; I 
jested.  Each  of  the  many  stations  at  which  we  stopped 


DARK  PATS. 


100 

furnished  materials  for  my  new-born  meriment.  1 
laughed  at  the  solemn-looking  Spanish  railway  officials, 
and  drew  pictures  of  the  doleful  fate  of  imaginary  nobly- 
born  hidalgos  whom  poverty  forced  to  descend  to  such 
employment.  I grumbled  not  at  the  slowness  of  the 
train,  although  an  ordinary  traveller  might  well,  when  on 
a Spanish  line,  sigh  for  the  comparatively  lightning  speed 
of  the  much-maligned  French  trains.  Time  was  nothing 
tome  now.  Was  there  not  a lifetime  stretching  before 
me— and  Philippa?  My  gayety  was  contagions..  .My 
mother  laughed  until  the  tears  came,  and  Philippa 
smiled  as  I had  not  6een  her  smile  since  we  picked  up 
under  such  sad  circumstances  that  long-dropped  thread  of 
friendship. 

Those  who  have  travelled  in  Spain  will  scarcely  credit 
me  when  X say  we  had  the  compartment  to  ourselves. 
We  were  troubled  by  no  cloaked  Spaniard  who,  as  is  the 
wont  of  his  kind,  insisted  upon  smoking  like  a furnace 
and  keeping  both  windows  shut.  Our  noble  courier  had 
been  given  his  instructions.  His  arguments  were  venal, 
and  had  I troubled  about  money  I should  have  found 
them  costly.  But  they  carried  the  point,  and  no  one  in- 
truded on  our  privacy. 

The  hours  went  by.  My  mother  slept,  or  pretended 
to  sleep.  I seated  myself  near  Philippa,  and  whispered 
words  of  thinly-veiled  love.  She  answered  them  not  I 
expected  no  answer — but  her  eyes  were  downcast  and 
her  cheek  was  blushing.  She  sighed.  A sad  smile 
played  around  her  sweet  mouth ; a smile  that  spoke  of  a ^ 
world  of  regret.  That  sigh,  that  smile,  told  me  that  she 
understood  me,  but  told  me  also  that,  ah ! it  could  never 
be.  The  past  never  forgives ! But  all  the  same  she  let 
her  hand  rest  in  mine ; and  although,  considering  what 


DARK  DATS. 


101 


had  happened,  X scarcely  dare  to  say  so,  for  once,  for 
many,  many  months,  I was  all  but  happy. 

Forme  that  journey  ended  only  too  soon.  At  nig  t 
we  reached  Burgos,  the  capital  of  the  old  Castilian  king- 
dom, and  I laid  my  head  on  my  pillow  and  enjoyed  sleep 
' such  as  I had  not  known  since  the  night  before  that  one, 
when  Philippa,  with  the  snow-flakes  falling  around  her, 
stood  outside  the  window  of  my  cottage  and  gave  me 
something  to  live  for— something  to  hope  for  I 


102 


DARK  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SAFE — AND  L O Y ED. 

*T^TOW  that  we  are  safe  in  Spain,  now  that  Philippa’s 
-UN  arrest  is  a matter  of  impossibility,  and  her  expulsion 
from  a country  so  lax  in  its  observance  of  international 
obligations  highly  improbable,  when  her  guilt  can  at  the 
utmost  be  only  suspected,  if  indeed  suspicion  ever  points 
to  her,  I may  pass  rapidly  over  the  events  of  the  next 
two  months;  the  more  so  as  my  record  of  them  would 
differ  very  little  from  the  description  of  an  ordinary  tour 
in  Spain.  To  me,  after  the  feverish  anxiety,  the  horri- 
ble dread  as  to  what  any  hour  might  bring  forth,  which 
had  characterized  our  flight  from  England,  it  seemed 
something  very  much  like  bathos  my  dropping  at  once 
into  the  position  of  the  every-day  tourist  taking  a couple 
of  ladies  on  a round  of  travel ; but  for  the  time  I was 
outwardly  neither  more  nor  less. 

From  Burgos  we  went  to  Yalladolid;  from  Yalladolid 
to  Madrid — Madrid,  the  high-perched  city,  with  its  arid, 
uninteresting  surroundings  and  abominable  climate.  Not 
long  did  we  linger  here.  Bad  and  trying  as  the  English 
winter  may  be,  the  cold  of  Madrid  is  a poor  exchange 
for  it.  I had  almost  thrown  aside  the  assumed  character 
of  an  invalid  ; but  I felt  it  would  be  the  height  of  incon- 
sistency, after  forcing  my  companions  to  accompany  me 
in  the  search  of  warmth,  to  make  any  stay  in  the  Spanish 
capital.  Right  glad  I was  to  leave  it,  and  turn  my  face 


DARK  DATS. 


103 


southward.  Philippa  was  by  now  in  apparently  good 
health,  both  bodily  and  mental ; but  while  at  Madrid  I 
trembled  for  her,  as  I should  tremble  for  any  one  I loved 
who  made  that  city  a resting-place— a city  swept  from 
end  to  end  by  crafty,  treacherous,  icy  winds  blowing 
straight  from  the  Guadarrama  mountains;  insidious 
blasts  in  which  lurk  the  seeds  of  consumption  and  death. 

So  at  our  leisure  we  went  southward,  halting  at  such 
places  and  seeing  such  sights  as  we  thought  lit ; lingeiing 
here  and  there  just  so  long  as  it  suited  ns ; travelling  by 
easy  stages,  and  in  such  comfort  as  we  could  command. 
At  Malaga  we  spent  weeks,  revelling  in  the  balmy, 
delicious  air;  at  Granada  we  were  days  and  days  before 
we  could  tear  ourselves  from  the  interesting,  absorbing 
glories  of  the  departed  Moor.  "We  were  in  a new  world 

a world  which  I had  always  longed  to  see.  At  last — 

it  was  just  at  the  end  of  April,  when  the  land  was  full 
of  roses,  when  vegetation  was  breaking  into  that  rich 
luxuriance  unknown  in  the  northern  lands — we  turned 
our  steps  to  the  city  which  I had  in  my  own  mind  fixed 
upon  as  the  end  of  our  wanderings,  the  half  Spanish, 
half  Moorish,  but  wholly  beautiful  city  of  Seville ; bril- 
liant, romantic  Seville,  with  its  flower-bedecked  houses, 
its  groves  of  orange  and  olive  trees,  its  luxuriant  gardens, 
its  crooked  narrow  streets,  its  Moorish  walls,  its  num- 
erous towers,  all  of  which  sink  into  insignificance  under 
the  shadow  of  the  lofty  Giralda.  All  I wanted  seemed 
to  be  here. 

Here  was  everything  for  the  sake  of  seeking  which 
I bad  professed  to  leave  foggy  England  sun,  warmth, 
color,  brightness.  Here  I thought,  if  in  any  place  in  the 
world,  will  the  one  I love  forget  what  she  knows  of  the 
cruel  past.  Here,  it  may  be,  our  new  life  shall  begin. 


104 


DARK  DATS. 


Glorious,  wonderful  Seville ! The  magic  charm  of  the 
place  fell  on  my  companions  as  it  fell  upon  me,  as  indeed 
it  falls  upon  all  who  visit  it.  By  common  consent  we 
arranged  to  stay  our  course  for  an  indefinite  time. 
Perhaps  by  now  we  all  thought  that  we  had  endured 
enough  of  hotel  life,  and  wanted  some  place  which  might 
bear  the  name  of  home ; so,  although  such  things  are  not 
very  easy  to  find,  I hired  a furnished  house.  Such  a 
house ! 

From  the  narrow  street — the  need  of  shade  makes 
narrow  streets  indispensable  to  Seville — pass  through  a 
light  open-work  iron  gate  into  a spacious  white  marble- 
lined  courtyard,  or,  as  the  Spaniards  call  it,  patio  / a 
courtyard  open  to  the  sky,  save  for  the  gayly-colored 
awning  which  is  sometimes  spread  over  it ; a space  fra- 
grant to  the  four  corners  with  the  perfume  of  orange  and 
other  sweet-smelling  blossoms,  bright  with  glowing  ole- 
anders, and  musical  wfith  the  murmur  of  fountains. 
Around  the  walls  statues,  some  of  the  fair  works  of  ar p, 
paintings  and  mirrors.  Every  sitting-room  in  the  house 
opening  on  to  this  cool  central  fairyland — a fairyland 
which,  for  many  months  of  the  year,  is  almost  the  only 
part  of  the  house  used  in  their  waking  hours  by  the 
Sevillanos.  Add  to  this  a garden,  not  large  but  exquisite, 
full  of  the  rarest  and  choicest  blooms,  and  if  vou  are  not 
hopelessly  bigoted,  and  enamored  of  English  fogs,  you 
must  long  for  such  a home  in  courtly,  beautiful  Seville! 

With  such  surroundings — almost  those  of  a Sybarite — 
who  caii  blame  me  for  being  lulled  into  security,  if  not 
forgetfulness,  and  for  telling  myself  that  my  troubles 
were  nearly  at  an  end  ? Who  can  wonder  at  the  castles 
I built  as  hour  after  hour  I lounged  in  the  patio,  with  its 
fragrant,  soothing  atmosphere*  and  gazed  at  Philippa’s 


DA  UK  DAYS. 


105 


beautiful  face,  and  now  and  again  meeting  her  dark  eyes, 
and  sometimes  surprising  in  those  thoughtful  depths  a 
look  which  thrilled  my  heart — a look  which  I told  my- 
self was  one  of  love  ? 

True,  that  often  and  often  in  my  sleep  I saw  the 
white,  dead  face,  with  the  snow-heap  forming  over  it. 
True,  that  often  and  .often  Philippa’s  wild  cry,  “The 
wages  of  sin — on,  on,  on  !”  rang  through  my  dreams,  and 
I awoke  trembling  in  every  limb ; but  in  the  day-time, 
in  the  midst  of  the  sweet  shaded  repose,  I could  almost 
banish  every  memory,  every  thought  which  strove  to  lead 
me  back  to  grief  and  horror. 

The  days,  each  one  sweeter  than  its  forerunner,  passed 
by.  Each  day  was  passed  with  Philippa.  We  wandered 
for  hours  through  the  marvellous  gardens  of  the  Alcazar ; 
we  drove  under  the  shading  trees  of  Las  Delicias ; we  made 
excursions  to  Italica  and  other  places,  which  the  guide- 
book tells  you  every  visitor  to  Seville  should  see ; but  I 
think  we  found  in  the  ordinary  sights,  which  were  at  our 
veVy  door,  as  much  pleasure  as  in  any  of  the  stock  shows. 
We  loved  to  watch  the  people.  We  delighted  in  the 
picturesque,  ragged-looking,  black-eyed  Andalusian  boy- 
rascals  who  played  and  romped  at  every  street-corner. 
We  noted  the  exquisitely  graceful  figures  of  the  Sevil- 
lanas ; I,  moreover,  noted  that  the  most  graceful  of  these 
figures  could  not  be  compared  to  Philippa’s  own.  We 
strolled  up  the  awning-roofed  Calle  de  las  Sierpes,  and 
laughed  at  the  curious  windowless  little  shops.  Every- 
thing was  so  strange,  so  bright,  so  teeming  with  old- 
world  tradition,  so  full  of  intense  interest,  that  no  won- 
der I could  for  the  time  send  painful  memories  to  the 
background. 

And  Philippa?  Although  there  were  times  when  her 


106 


DAKK  DATS. 


face  grew  sad  with  sad  remembrances;  although  at  times 
her  eyes  sought  mine  with  that  troubled,  inquiring  look ; 
although  I trembled  as  to  what  might  be  the  question 

icli  I seemed  to  see  her  lips  about  to  form ; I did  not, 
could  not  believe  she  was  entirely  unhappy.  The  smile 
—a  quiet,  thoughtful  one,  yet  a smile— was  oftener  seen 
on  her  face.  It  came  now  of  its  own  accord.  More  and 
more  certain  I grew  that,  if  nothing  recalled  the  past,  or 
I should  say,  if  nothing  filled  the  blank,  so  mercifully 
left,  of  that  one  night,  the  hour  was  not  far  distant  when 
my  love  would  call  herself  happy.  Oh,  to  keep  that  fatal 
knowledge  from  her  forever ! 

Such  was  my  life.  So,  in  calm,  peace,  all  but  happi- 
ness, the  days  passed  by,  until  the  hour  came  when  for 
the  third  time  I dared  to  tell  Philippa  that  I loved  her 
to  tell  her  so  with  the  certainty  of  hearing  her  re-echo 
my  words.  Yes,  certainty.  Had  I not  for  many  days 
seen  her  eyes  grow  brighter,  the  grave,  thoughtful  look 
leave  her  face,  her  whole  manner  change  when  I drew 
near?  Such  signs  as  these  told  me  that  the  crowning 
moment  of  my  life  was  at  hand. 

Here  for  one  moment  I pause.  I scorn  to  excuse  my- 
self for  wishing  to  marry  a woman  who  had  been,  or 
supposed  herself  to  have  been,  the  innocent  victim  of  a 
scoundrelly  man  of  the  world.  I have  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  those  who  think  such  an  excuse  is  needed. 
Mrs.  Wilson’s  statement  that  the  marriage  was  valid 
might  be  true  or  false.  It  gave  me  the  impression  that 
it  was  true,  and  I believed  that  Philippa  could  lay  claim 
to  bear  the  man’s  accursed  name.  But  whether  she  was 
Lady  Ferrand,  or  a trusting  woman  betrayed,  for  my 
own  sake  I cared  little.  She  was  Philippa! 

As  to  my  intention  of  marrying,  my  one  wish  to 


DARK  DAYS. 


107 


marry,  a woman  wlio,  in  her  temporary  and  fully-ac- 
counted-for  delirium,  had  killed  the  man  who  so  cruelly 
wronged  her,  I have  but  this  to  say.  My  tale,  although 
t give  it  to  the  world,  is  not  written  for  the  purpose  of 
fiction.  It  is  the  story  of  myself — a story  which  seemed 
*.o  me  worth  telling — of  a man  who  loved  one  woman 
passionately,  blindly,  and  without  consideration.  Such 
was  my  great  love  for  Philippa  that  I feel  no  shame  in 
telling  the  truth,  and  saying  that  had  I seen  her,  in  full 
possession  of  her  senses,  level  that  pistol  and  shoot  her 
betrayer  through  his  black  heart,  I should  have  held  that 
only  justice  had  been  done.  I should  have  regretted  the 
act,  but,  nevertheless,  I would  have  pleaded  for  her  love 
as  fervently  and  reverently  as  I now  was  about  to  plead 
for  it. 

Once  more  I say,  if  you  condemn  me,  throw  the  book 
aside. 

Philippa,  with  her  eyes  half  closed,  was,  as  was  usual 
at  that  hour,  sitting  in  the  patio.  In  her  hand  she  held 
a sprig  of  orange  blossom,  and  ever  and  anon  inhaled  its 

I delicious  perfume ; an  action,  by  the  bye,  scarcely  needful, 
as  the  whole  air  was  redolent  of  the  fragrance  thrown 
from  the  great  tree  in  the  centre  of  the  marble  space. 
She  was,  or  fancied  she  was,  alone,  as  some  little  time 
before  I had  left  the  court  to  obtain  a fresh  supply  of 
cigarettes ; and  my  mother,  who  could  never  quite  adapt 
herself  to  the  semi-open-air  life,  was  taking  a siesta  in  the 
drawing-room.  As  I saw  Philippa  in  all  her  glowing 
beauty,  tlxe  white  marble  against  which  she  leaned  mak- 
ing as  it  were  a suitable  foil  to  the  warm  color  of  her 
cheek — the  long,  curved,  black,  downcast  lashes — the 
bosom  rising  and  falling  gently — like  an  inspiration  the 
thought  came  to  me  that  in  a minute  my  fate  would  be 


108 


DAEK  DATS. 


decided.  Heavens ! how  conld  I have  waited  so  long  to 
hear  the  words  which  I knew  she  wonld  say  ? 

I crept  noiselessly  to  her  side.  I passed  my  arm  rtund 
her  waist  and  drew  her  to  me.  I whispered  words  » i 
passionate  love  in  her  ear — words,  the  confidence  ol  wi.ich 
startled  me ; but  then  this  time  I knew  that  my  love  of 
years  was  to  be  rewarded. 

She  did  not  shrink  away ; she  did  not  struggle  to  free 
herself,  but  she  trembled  like  a leaf  in  my  embrace. 
She  sighed  deeply,  even  hopelessly,  and  I saw  the  tears 
welling  in  her  dark  eyes.  Closer  and  firmer  I held  her, 
and  kissed  her  cheek  again  and  again.  Had  that  mo- 
ment been  my  last  I should  have  said  I had  not  lived  in 
vain. 

“ Philippa,”  I whispered,  “ my  queen,  my  love,  tell  me 
you  love  me  at  last.” 

She  was  silent.  The  tears  broke  from  her  eyes  and 
ran  down  her  cheeks.  I kissed  the  signs  of  sorrow 
away. 

“ Dearest,”  I said,  “ it  is  answer  enough  that  you  suffer 
these  kisses,  but  I have  waited  so  long — been  so  unhappy ; 
look  at  me  and  satisfy  me ; let  me  hear  you  say,  ‘ I love 
you ! ’ ” 

She  turned  her  tearful  eyes  to  mine,  but  not  for  long. 
She  cast  her  looks  upon  the  ground  and  was  still  silent. 
Yet  she  lay  unresisting  in  my  arms.  That,  after  all,  was 
the  true  answer. 

But  I must  have  it  from  her  lips.  “ Tell  me,  dearest 
— tell  me  once,”  I prayed. 

Her  lips  quivered  ; her  bosom  rose  and  fell.  The  blush 
, spread  from  her  cheek  and  stole  down  her  white  neck. 

“ Yes,”  she  murmured,  “now  that  it  is  too  late,  I love 
you.” 


DARK  DATS. 


109 


I laughed  a wild  laugh.  I clasped  Philippa  to  my 

“Too  late!”  I cried.  “We  may  have  fifty  years  of 

happiness.”  T . 

“ It  is  too  late,”  she  answered.  “ For  your  sake  1 nave 

told  you  that  I love  you,  Basil.  My  love,  I will  kiss  you 
once — then  loose  me,  and  let  us  say  farewell.” 

“ When  death  closes  the  eyes  of  one  of  us  we  will  say 
farewell— not  until  then,”  I said,  as  my  lips  met  hers  in  a 
long  and  rapturous  kiss. 

Then  with  a sigh  she  gently  but  firmly  freed  herself 
from  my  arms.  She  rose,  we  stood  on  the  marble  floor, 
face  to  face,  gazing  in  each  other’s  eyes. 

« Basil,”  she  said  softly,  “ all  this  must  be  forgotten. 
Say  farewell ; to-morrow  we  must  part.” 

“ Dearest,  our  lives  henceforth  are  one.” 

« It  cannot  be.  Spare  me,  Basil ! You  have  been  kind 

to  me.  It  cannot  be.” 

“Why?  Tell  me  why.” 

“Why!  need  you  ask?  You  bear  an  honored  and 
respected  name ; and  I,  you  know  what  I am  a shamed 

woman.”  „ 

“ A wronged  woman,  it  may  be,  not  a shamed  one. 

“ Ah ! Basil,  in  this  world,  when  a woman  is  concerned, 
wronged  and  shamed  mean  the  same  thing.  You  have 
been  as  a brother  to  me.  I came  to  yon  in  my  trouble ; 
you  saved  my  life — my  reason.  Be  kinder  still,  and  spare 

me  the  pain  of  paining  you.” 

By  look,  by  word,  by  gesture,  she  seemed  to  beseech 
me.  Oh,  how  I longed  to  tell  her  that  I firmly  believed 
she  was  the  dead  man’s  wife!  I had  much  difficulty  uv 
checking  the  words  which  were  forming  on  my  lips.  But 
I dared  not  speak.  Telling  her  that  the  marriage  was  a 


110 


DAKK  DAYS. 


valid  one  meant  that  I must  tell  her  of  her  husbaW^ 
death,  and,  it  might  be,  how  he  died. 

“ Philippa/5  I said,  “ the  whole  happiness  of  my  life, 
my  every  desire,  is  centred  upon  making  you  my  wife. 
Think,  dearest,  how  when  I had  no  right  to  demand  this 
gift  my  life  was  made  desolate ; think  what  it  will  be 
when  I know  you  love  me  and  yet  refuse  to  be  mine ! 
Have  I been  true  to  you,  Philippa  ?” 

“ Heaven  knows  you  have.” 

a Then  why,  now  that  you  love  me,  refuse  me  my  re- 
ward r 


“Oh,  spare  me  1— I cannot,  I will  not  give  it.  Basil, 
dear  Basil,  why  with  your  talents  should  you  marry  the 
cast-off — -mistress — of  SirMervyn  Ferrand  ? Why  should 
you  blush  to  show  your  wife  to  the  world  F 

“ Blush  ! The  world  ! What  is  my  world  save  you  ? 
You  are  all  to  me,  sweetest.  You  love  me — what  more 
do  I want?  Before  this  time  next  week  wre  will  be 
married.” 

“Never,  never!  I will  not  wrong  the  man  I love. 
Basil,  farewell  forever  !” 


She  clasped  her  hands  and  fled  wildly  across  the  court. 
I caught  her  at  the  door,  which  she  had  reached  and  half 
opened.  “Promise  me  one  thing,”  I said ; “promise 
you  will  wait  here  until  my  return,  t shall  not  be  five 
minutes.  It  is  not  much  to  ask,  Philippa.” 

I hilippa  bent  her  head  as  m assent.  I passed  through 
the  door,  and  in  a few  minutes  returned  to  the  patio,  ac- 
companied by  my  mother,  who  glanced  from  Philippa  to 
me  in  a 'surprised  way. 

Wliat  is  the  matter  ?”  she  asked,  with  her  cheerful 

smile.  “Have  you  two  young  people  been  quarrel- 
ling?” 


DARK  DATS. 


Ill 


Philippa  made  no  answer.  She  stood  with  her  Ungers 

interlaced ; her  eyes  cast  on  the  ground. 

“ Mother,”  I said,  “I  have  to-day  asked  Philippa  to  be 
mv  wife.  I have  told  her  that  all  my  happiness  depends 
upon  her  consent  to  this.  I have  loved  her  for  years; 
and  at  last  she  loves  me.  Yes,  she  loves  me. 

My  mother  gave  a little  cry  of  pleasure,  and  stepped 

forward.  I checked  her.  . , K t>  * 

“ X l0ve  her,  and  she  loves  me,”  I continued.  h>u 
she  refuses  to  marry  me.  And  why?  Because  she 
fears  to  bring  shame  on  an  honorable  name.  You  mow 
her  story ; you  are  my  mother.  You,  of  all  people  m 
the  world,  should  be  the  most  jealous  as  to  the  honor  of 
my  name.  Yon  should  know  whom  you  would  elioose 

for  my  wife.  Tell  her — ” . , , 

I said  no  more.  My  mother  advanced  with  out- 
stretched arms,  and  in  a moment  my  poor  girl  was 
weeping  in  her  embrace,  while  words  winch  I could  not 
hear,  but  whose  purport  I could  well  guess,  were  being 
whispered  to  her.  I had  iudeed  been  right  m trusting 

to  my  mother’s  noble  nature. 

“ Leave  us  for  a little  while,  Basil,”  she  said,  as  Phi- 
lippa still  sobbed  upon  her  shoulder.  “ Come  back  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour’s  time. 

I turned  away,  went  past  the  screen  which  is  some- 
times put  up  to  insure  privacy,  out  of  the  iron  gate,  into 
I the  narrow  street.  I watched  the  lounging,  digmfieo- 
looking  men  and  the  dark-eyed  women  who  went  by  , 1 
looked  at  the  merry  urchins  at  play ; and  after  what 
seemed  an  interminable  quarter  of  an  hour,  returned  to 
learn  how  my  gentle  counsel  had  succeeded  with  my 

My  mother  and  Philippa  were  sitting  with  tlieir  arms 


112 


DARK  DAYS. 


around  each  other.  Philippa,  as  I entered  the 
raised  her  eyes  ta  mine  with  a look  of  shy  happiness.  My 
mother  rose  and  took  the  girl  by  the  hand. 

“ Basil,’5  she  said,  “ I have  at  last  been  able  to  persuade 
her  that  yon  and  I,  at  least,  rise  above  the  conventionali- 
ties of  what  is  called  the  world.  I have  told  her  that, 
knowing  all  I know,  I see  nothing  to  prevent  her  from 
being  your  wife.  I have  told  her  that  simply  for  her 
own  sweet  sake  I would  rather  see  you  marry  her  than 
any  woman  in  the  world.  And,  Basil,  I fancy  I have 
made  her  believe  me.” 

With  her  soft  eyes  full  of  maternal  love,  my  mother 
kissed  me  and  left  the  court.  I opened  my  arms  to  close 
them  round  the  fairest  woman  in  the  world;  and  all  the 
earth  seemed  bright  and  glorious  to  me.  My  great  love 
had  conquered ! 

And  yet,  even  in  that  moment  of  bliss,  my  thoughts 
involuntarily  flew  away  to  a snow-heaped  road  in  Eng- 
land— to  a white  drift,  under  which  for  days  and  days  a 
ghastly  object  had  once  been  lying.  A dream  ! a dream! 
It  must  have  been  a fearful  dream.  Forget  it,  Basil 
North,  and  be  happy  in  the  happiness  you  have  at  last 
won ! 


DARK  DATS. 


CHAPTER  X, 


THE  SWORD  PALLS 


NCE  conquered— once  convinced  that  the  obstacles 


which  her  solicitude  for  my  welfare  raised  against 
my  wish  were  not  insuperable — Philippa  offered  no 
further  resistance ; while  as  for  me,  every  day  that  might 
be  counted  before  I called  her  my  wife  seemed  a day 
spoiled,  if  not  entirely  wasted.  'With  my  mother’s  argu- 
ments to  back  my  own  fervent  persuasion,  I had  no 
difficulty  in  winning  Philippa’s  consent  to  our  marriage 
taking  place  as  soon  as  the  needful  formalities  could  be 
complied  with.  And  yet,  although  the  day  was  fixed 
it  was  at  my  instance  changed,  and  the  ceremony  post- 
poned for  a while. 

My  reason  for  deferring  my  crowning  happiness  was 
this.  Knowing  all  that  I knew,  the  question  arose, 
under  what  name  was  Philippa  to  be  married?  Under 
her  own  maiden  name ; under  the  false  name  which  for 
some  time  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand,  for  reasons  best  known 
to  himself,  had 'made  her  assume ; 'or  under  that  name 
which,  supposing  Mrs.  Wilson  had  spoken  the  truth,  she 
was  legally  entitled  to  bear?  So  anxious,  so  resolved 
was  I that  there  should  be  no  shadow  of  doubt  as  to  the 
validity  of  her  second  and  happier  marriage,  that  after 
due  consideration  I determined  to  sacrifice  my  own  in- 
clinations, and  postpone  our  wedding  long  enough  to 


114 


DARK  DAYS. 


give  me  time  to  pay  a flying  visit  to  England,  where 
could  do  my  best  to  obtain  such  evidence  as  would  show 
that  Philippa  was  the  dead  man’s  widow. 

I made  the  excuse  that  I found  many  matters  of  busi- 
ness connected  with  my  property  must  be  attended  to  be- 
fore I could  be  married.  I travelled  to  England — to  Liver- 
pool— as  fast  as  I could.  I stayed  there  for  a week,  and 
during  that  time  made  full  researches  into  the  life  and 
death  of  a woman  who,  as  Mrs.  Wilson  said,  had  died 
on  a certain  date,  and  been  buried  under  the  name  of 
Lucy  Ferrand. 

The  information  I acquired  as  to  her  antecedents  is  of 
no  consequence  to  my  story.  Whatever  her  faults  may 
have  been,  her  history  was  a sad  one;  indeed  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  history  of  any  woman  who  had  been 
cursed  by  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  love  was  a sad  one. 
However,  the  result  of  my  investigations  was,  in  short, 
this : Ferrand  had  married  the  woman  many  years  ago. 
They  had  parted  by  mutual  consent.  With  his  cynical 
carelessness,  he  had  troubled  no  more  about  her;  and, 
stranger  still,  she  had  not  troubled  him.  She  died  on 
the  date  given  by  my  informant.  The  question  of 
identity  could  be  easily  settled ; so  that  if  ever  Philippa 
chose  to  claim  the  rights  appertaining  to  Sir  Mervyn 
Ferrand’s  widow,  she  would  have  no  difficulty  in  making 
that  claim  good.  But  I trusted  that  years  might  pass 
before  she  learned  that  the  man  was  dead. 

I made  my  presence  in  England  known  to  no  one ; in 
fact,  I felt  that  in  returning  to  my  native  country  I ran 
a certain  amount  of  risk.  For  all  I knew  to  the  con- 
trary, there  might  be  a warrant  out  against  me.  If  sus- 
picion as  to  the  author  of  that  night’s  work  had  in  any 
way  been  directed  to  Philippa,  I,  the  partner  of  her 


DARK  DATS. 


115 


flight,  could  not  hope  to  escape  free.  However,  I com- 
forted myself  by  thinking  that  if  danger  menaced  us  I 
should  have  heard  something  about  it,  as  after  our  first 
hurried  start  I liad  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  our 
whereabouts.  It  would  have  been  useless.  My  mother 
had  friends  in  England,  with  whom  she  exchanged 
letters.  I had  an  agent  and  lawyers,  with  whom,  if  only 
for  financial  reasons,  I was  bound  to  correspond.  I had 
been  obliged  to  write  to  my  stolid  William,  and  instruct 
him  to  get  rid  of  the  cottage  as  best  he  could,  and  to  look 
out  for  a fresh  place  for  himself.  But  all  the  same  I did 
not  care  to  let  it  be  known  that  I was  now  in  England. 

While  engaged  upon  raking  up  evidence  on  Philippa’s 
behalf,  I did  not  neglect  to  make  such  inquiries  as  I 
could  respecting  the  event  which  had  happened  that 
night  near  Boding.  1 found  that,  so  far  as  the  general 
public  knew,  the  crime  was  still  veiled  in  mystery.  No 
one  had  been  arrested ; no  one  had  been  accused ; no 
reason  for  the  deed  had  been  discovered,  and  as  yet  sus- 
picion pointed  to  no  one.  Indeed,  in  spite  of  the  hun- 
dred pounds  reward  offered  by  Government,  it  seemed 
that  Sir  Mervvn  Fer rand’s  murder  was  relegated  to 
swell  the  list  of  undiscovered  crimes.  By  this  I knew 
that  Mrs.  Wilson  had  kept  her  promise  of  silence ; and. 
now  that  months  had  gone  by,  now  that  public  attention 
had  been  turned  from  the  thrilling  affair,  now  that 
Philippa  seemed  as  far  or  farther  than  ever  from  giving 
any  token  which  suggested  the  awakening  of  recollection 
of  what  her  wrong,  her  frenzy,  had  prompted  her  hand 
to  do  unknowingly,  I dared  to  hope  that  any  chance 
which  remained  of  a revelation  of  the  truth  was  reduced 
to  a minimum.  These  results  of  my  investigations  and 
inquiries  gave  me  immense  relief,  and  my  heart  was  all 


116 


BARK  BAYS. 


bat  gay  as,  armed  with  the  proofs  of  the  first  Lady 
Ferrand’s  death,  I hurried  back  to  Seville,  Philippa,  and 
the  happiness  which  I vowed  should  be  mine. 

We  were  married.  Philippa  and  I were  married  I 
Married ; and  a few  months  ago  I sat  lonely,  miserable, 
and  heart-broken,  deeming  that  the  one  I loved  was  lost 
to  me  forever  ! What  matters  the  things  which  have  filled 
those  months,  and  made  them  the  most  painful  of  my 
life?  To-day  we  are  man  and  wife,  joined  together  till 
death  us  do  part ! 

I said  no  word  as  to  the  result  of  my  inquiries  in  Liv- 
erpool. I had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  Philippa,  who 
in  some  things  was  as  simple  and  trusting  as  a child,  that 
it  was  necessary,  or  at  least  advisable,  she  should  be  mar- 
ried under  the  name  which  her  first  certificate  of  marri- 
age affected  to  bestow  upon  her.  She  signed  her  name 
for  the  last,  it  may,  for  aught  I know,  have  also  been  the 
first  time,  as  Philippa  Ferrand  ; and  I noticed  that  she 
shuddered  as  she  formed  the  letters. 

Although  my  bride  was  by  birth  half  a Spaniard,  and 
Although  I had  by  now  in  many  ways  conformed  to  the 
Spanish  mode  of  life,  we  were  still  English  enough  to 
look  upon  going  away  somewhere  for  a honeymoon  as  in- 
dispensable. It  would  be  but  a short  trip ; and  as  my 
mother  in  our  absence  would  be  left  at  Seville  alone,  or 
with  servants  only,  we  did  not  care  to  go  very  far  away. 
It  so  happened  that,  although  so  close  to  Cadiz,  we  had 
not  yet  paid  that  town  a visit,  and  thought  the  present  a 
capital  opportunity  for  so  doing. 

To  Cadiz  we  went,  and  stayed  several  days  at  the  Hotel 
de  Paris.  We  liked  the  white-walled  town,  rising  and 
shining  above  the  dark-blue  sea,  like,  as  I have  somewhere 
seen  it  described,  a white  pearl  in  a crown  of  sapphires; 


DARK  DATS. 


117 


or,  as  the  Gadi&nos  call  it,  tazita  de  plata,  a.  silver  cup. 
We  liked  the  rows  of  tall  terrace-topped  houses.  e 1 e 
the  movement  and  bustle  on  the  quays  and  in  the  port 
We  liked  the  walks  on  the  broad  granite  ramparts,  and 
the  lovely  views  of  the  busy  bay  and  country  beyond  it  , 
but  all  the  same  we  agreed  that  Cadiz  bore  no  com  pan- 
son  to  our  beautiful  Seville,  and  the  sooner  we  returned 
to  that  gay  city  the  better. 

Now  that  I had  gained  my  desire,  was  I happy  ? After 
all  that  had  passed,  could  I have  been  happy  during  those 
early  days  of  our  wedded  life?  As  I look  back  upon 
them,  I sit  and  muse,  trying  in  vain  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion  to  ray  own  satisfaction.  Plulippa  loved  me  s 1 
was  my  wife ; come  good,  come  evil,  she  was  mine  for- 
ever. In  so  much  I was  happy,  thrice  happy.  Coul 
have  lived  but  for  the  present,  my  bliss  would  have 

known  no  alloy.  , . - , 

But  there  was  the  past ! I could  not  altogether  forget 

the  path  which  had  led  to  such  happiness  as  now  was 
mine.  I could  be  thankful  that  I alone  knew  all  the  hor- 
rors and  dangers  with  which  that  path  was  studdc  . 
alone  knew  the  secret  of  that  one  night.  Although  I 
could  keep  it  forever,  would  it  be  always  a seci  e 

Yes,  and  there  was  the  future.  Behind  the  happiness 
which  was  mine  at  present  lurked  a dread  as  to  what  the 
future  had  in  store  for  me-for  us.  It  was  a dread  which 
day  by  day  grew  stronger.  The  greater  my  lappine  , 
the  more  dreadful  the  thought  of  its  being  wrecked 
The  feeling  that  my  house  of  joy  was  built  vlPoll  s^d 
was  always  obtruding  on  my  most  blissful  hours,  and  not, 

I knew,  without  good  reasons. 

Philippa’s  very  avoidance  of  speaking  of  her  p 
lent  some  justification  to  my  gloomy  forebodings.  No 


113  DARK  DATS. 

once  did  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  name  pass  between  my 
wife  and  me.  Not  once  did  slie  ask  me  for  any  further 
particulars  concerning  the  events  of  that  night  upon 
which,  in  the  height  of  her  short-lived  mania,  she  reached 
my  cottage.  True  that  upon  becoming  my  wife,  and  be- 
ginning a new  and  happier  stage  of  life,  it  might  be  but 
natural  for  her  to  wish  to  consign  to  oblivion  the  wrong, 
the  shame,  the  suffering  wrought  by  a villain’s  craft ; yet 
I was  so  mixed  up  in  the  catastrophe  that  silence  on  the 
subject  seemed  strange.  Her  reticence  alarmed  me.  I 
fancied  it  must  be  caused  by  some  vague  uneasiness  con- 
nected with  that  night — some  doubt  which  she  dared  not 
seek  to  set  at  rest.  It  is,  1 know,  not  unusual  for  women, 
after  their  recovery  from  that  mysterious  disease  which 
had  for  awhile  driven  my  poor  girl  distraught,  to  be  able 
to  recall  and  accurately  describe  the  delusions  which  had 
afflicted  them  during  those  wandering  hours.  I myself 
had  in  one  or  two  cases  noticed  this  peculiarity,  and  the 
authorities  which  I had  studied  during  Philippa’s  illness 
mention  it  as  an  indisputable  fact.  My  great  dread  was 
that  at  some  moment,  perhaps  when  our  happiness  Was 
as  perfect  as  it  could  be,  some  simple  chance,  some  allu- 
sion to  certain  events,  even  the  bare  mention  of  a name, 
might  supply  the  missing  link,  and  the  fearful  truth 
would  be  revealed  to  my  wife. 

Our  return  journey  to  Seville  was  made  by  water. 
Although  the  Gfnadalquiver  is  not  a very  interesting 
river,  we  thought  travelling  by  steamer  would  be  a pleas- 
ant change  from  the  journeys  in  the  hot,  stuffy,  slow 
trains,  full  from  end  to  end  with  the  odor  of  garlic  and 
tobacco  ; so  early  one  morning  we  left  Cadis,  and  were 
soon  steaming  up  the  sluggish,  dull,  turbid  river,  with 
the  great  flat  stretches  of  swampy  land  on  either  hutid. 


DARK  DAYS. 


119 


There  were  not  many  passengers  on  board  the  steamer. 
The  boat  itself  was  a wretched  affair,  and  before  an  hour 
was  over  we  wished  we  had  chosen  the  train  as  a mode  of 
transit.  Mile  after  mile  of  the  level  deserted  land 
through  which  the  river  flows  passed  by,  and  presented 
no  objects  of  interest  greater  than  herds  of  cattle  or 
flights  of  aquatic  birds.  Save  that  Philippa  was  by  my 
side,  it  was  the  dullest  journey  I ever  made. 

Of  course  there  were  English  tourists  on  boaid;  no 
spot  is  complete  without  them.  Two  of  them,  young 
men,  and  apparently  gentlemen,  had  seated  themselves 
near  us;  and  after  the  usual  admiring  glances  at  my 
beautiful  Philippa,  commenced  a desultory  talk  with 
each  other. 

From  the  unrestrained  way  in  which  they  spoke,  and 
from  the  strength  of  some  of  their  unfavorable  com- 
ments on  the  scenery,  or  lack  of  scenery,  it  was  clear  that 
they  took  us  for  natives,  before  whom  they  could  speak 
without  being  understood.  Philippa,  of  course,  looked  a 
thorough  Spaniard,  and  my  own  face  had  become  so 
tanned  by  the  sun  that  I might  have  been  of  any  nation- 
ality. 

The  young  fellows  chatted  on,  quite  oblivious  to  the 
fact  that  two  of  their  neighbors  understood  every  word 
they  spoke.  For  some  time  I listened  with  great  amuse- 
ment; then  the  lulling  motiou  of  the  steamer,  the  slug- 
gish muddy  flow  of  the  stream,  the  monotonous  banks 
past  which  we  stole,  exercised  a soporific  effect  upon  me, 
and  I began  to  doze  and  dream. 

Through  my  dreams  X heard  a name,  a hated  name, 
spoken  clearly  and  distinctly.  I started  and  opened  my 
eyes.  Philippa’s  head  was  stretched  forward  as  if  she 


120 


DARK  DAYS. 


was  intent  upon  catching  some  expected  words  spoken 
bj  another. 

“ Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand,”  I heard  one  of  our  fellow- 
voyagers  repeat.  “Yes,  I remember  him;  tall,  good- 
looking  man.  Where  is  lie  now  ? He  was  a bad  lot.” 

“ Surely  you  read  or  heard  about  it  ?”  said  his  com. 
panion  in  a tone  of  surprise. 

I touched  my  wife’s  arm.  “ Come  away,  Philippa,” 
I said. 

She  made  a motion  of  dissent.  Again  I urged  her. 
She  shook  her  head  pettishly. 

uAh!  I forgot  where  you  have  been  for  months,” 
said  the  second  tourist,  laughing ; “ out  of  the  pale  of 
civilization  and  newspapers.  Well,  Ferrand  was  mur- 
dered— shot  dead !” 

Philippa,  dearest,  come,  I implore  you,”  I whispered. 

It  was  too  late!  The  look  on  her  face  told  me  that 
nothing  would  now  move  her — nothing!  She  would 
hear  the  dreadful  truth,  told  perhaps  with  distorted 
details.  I groaned  inwardly.  The  moment  I had  so 
long  dreaded  had  come.  If  I dragged  her  away  by  force 

-if  I interrupted  the  speakers — what  good  could  it  do? 
She  had  heard  enough.  She  would  force  me  to  tell  her 
the  rest.  I could  only  pray  that  she  would  not  in  any 
way  associate  herself  with  the  man’s  death. 

“ Murdered!  Poor  fellow!  Who  murdered  him?” 
I heai’d  the  first  speaker  say. 

“Ho  one  knows.  lie  was  shot  dead  on  a couutry 
roadside,  just  as  that  fearful  snow-storm  of  last  winter 
began.  It  seems  almost  incredible,  but  the  snow  drifted 
ovei  him,  and  until  it  melted  the  crime  was  not  discov- 
ered. In  the  interval  the  murderer  had,  of  course,  got 
clean  away.” 


DARK  DATS. 


121 


■ 

“Poor  devil!  T never  beard  any  good  of  him;  but 
what  an  end !” 

I was  not  looking  at  the  speakers.  I was  noting  every 
change  in  my  wife’s  face.  I saw  the  color  fly  from  her 
cheek.  I saw  her  lips  and  throat  working  convulsively, 
as  though  she  was  trying  to  articulate.  I saw  her  dark 
brows  contract  as  in  anguish.  I knew  that  she  was 
clasping  her  hands  together,  as  was  her  way  when  agi- 
tated. Suddenly  she  turned  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  in  her 
eyes  was  a look  of  horror  which  told  me  that  the  very 
worst  had  come  to  pass — that  the  dread  which  had 
haunted  me  was  realized ! Then  with  a low  moan  she 
sank,  white  and  senseless,  on  my  shoulder. 

Though  in  a whirl  of  despair,  I believe  that  I assumed 
a kind  of  mechanical  calm.  I seem  to  remember  that  the 
two  English  tourists  offered  their  assistance  ; that,  as  we 
bore  Philippa  to  an  extemporized  couch  in  the  shadiest 
and  coolest  place  we  could  find,  I smiled,  and  attributed 
my  wife’s  fainting-fit  to  the  heat  of  the  sun,  the  smell  of 
engines,  or  something  of  that  kind.  Little  did  those 
young  men  guesss  what  their  chance  words  had  wrought. 
Little  could  they  think  that  in  speaking  of  Sir  Mervyn 
Eerrand’s  death  they  had,  perhaps,  wrecked  the  happiness 
of  two  lives.  My  heart  was  full  of  grief  and  fear,  but  I 
believe  I bore  myself  bravely. 

In  spite  of  such  restoratives  as  we  could  administer, 
Philippa’s  swoon  lasted  for  a considerable  time.  I 
troubled  little  about  that  fact.  Indeed,  to  me  it  seemed 
well  that  syncope  should  have  supervened,  and,  for  a 
time,  banished  the  dreadful  memories  which  had  so  sud- 
denly invaded  her  brain.  Could  such  a thing  have  been 
possible,  I would  almost  have  wished  that  her  insensibil- 
ity would  continue  until  wc  reached  Seville.  But  it  was 


128 


t>AKK  DAYS. 


not  to  be  so.  By  and  by  she  sighed  deeply,  and  her  eye 
opened.  Consciousness  and  all  its  dreaded  sequence  w 
hers  once  more. 

I spoke  to  her,  but  she  made  no  reply.  She  tnrne 
her  eyes  from  mine ; she  shunned  my  gaze ; she  even 
seemed  to  shrink  from  the  toucn  of  my  hand.  During 
the  remainder  of  that  dreary  journey  not  one  word  passed 
her  lips.  She  lay  with  her  face  turned  to  the  side  of  the 
vessel,  heedless  of  curious  glances  from  fellow-passengers, 
heedless  of  my  whispered  words  of  love  ; heedless  of  all 
save  her  own  thoughts — thoughts  which  led  her,  I 
trembled  to  picture  whither. 

‘ Through  all  those  long  sultry  hours  while  the  ^wretched 
steamboat  ploughed  its  way  up  the  broad  muddy  stream  I 
sat  beside  her,  trying  to  find  some  way  out  of  our  sorrow. 
Alas  ! every  road  was  stopped  by  the  impassable  obstacle 
of  Philippa’s  knowledge  of  what  she  had  done.  For  she 
knew  it,  I was  certain.  That  look  in  her  eyes  had  told 
me  so  much.  The  duration  of  her  insanity  had  been  so 
short  that  I could  gather  no  comfort  from  the  fact  that 
by  some  merciful  arrangement  maniacs  who  recover  their 
erring  senses  are  troubled  little  by  the  deeds  they  have 
done  in  their  moments  of  madness.  I felt  that  in  my 
wife’s  case  my  only  hope  was  to  endeavor  by  argument 
to  bring  her  to  my  own  way  of  thinking;  that  is,  to  con- 
sider herself  unaccountable  by  any  law,  human  or  divine, 
for  her  actions  at  the  time.  But  I doubted  if  her  sensi- 
tive, impulsive  nature  could  ever  be  induced  to  take  this 
view  of  her  act.  I doubted,  had  she  not  been  the  woman 
I loved  with  a passionate  love,  if  I could  have  quite  ab- 
solved her  from  the  crime,  with  the  remembrance  of  her 
Words,  “ Basil,  did  you  ever  hate  a man  ?”  still  with  me. 

Yet,  strange  anomaly,  I would,  in  fair  fight  of  course^ 


DARK  DAYS. 


123 

have  shot  that  man  through  the  heart  and  have  gloried  in 
the  deed.  But  then  Philippa  was  a woman,  and  had  she 
not  been  the  woman  I loved  I might  have  shrunk  from 
the  one  who,  even  in  her  madness,  was  urged  to  take  such 
fearful  vengeance. 

I smiled  bitterly  as  I thought  how  a chance  breath  of 
wind  had  tumbled  my  house  of  cards  to  the  ground.  I 
smiled  almost  triumphantly  as  I told  myself  that,  come 
what  might — misery — shame — death — I had  won  and  held 
for  a week  the  one  desire  of  my  life.  Nothing  could 
deprive  me  of  that  memory. 

Home  at  last ! Still  silent,  or  answering  my  questions 
by  monosyllables,  Philippa  was  brought  by  me  to  our 
once  happy  home  in  Seville.  My  mother,  with  arch 
smiles  of  welcome  on  her  comely  face,  was  at  the  gate  of 
the  patio  ready  to  receive  us.  As  she  saw  her  a kind  of 
shiver  ran  through  my  poor  love’s  frame.  She  let  my 
mother  embrace  and  caress  her  without,  any  display  of 
reciprocal  affection. 

“Philippa  is  ill,”  I said,  in  explanation.  “I  will  take 
her  to  her  room.”  " 

I led  her  to  the  apartment  which  my  mother  had  in 
our  absence  fitted  up  for  us.  It  was  gay  and  beautiful 
with  flowers,  and  there  were  many  other  careful  little 
evidences  of  the  hearty  welcome  which  was  waiting  us. 
Philippa  noticed  nothing.  I closed  the  door  and  turned 
toward  my  wife. 

She  looked  at  me  with  those  wondrous  dark  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  search  my  very  soul.  “Basil,”  she  said, 
in  a low,  solemn  voice,  “ tell  me — tell  me  the  truth. 
What  had  I done  that  night  V ’ 


134 


DARK  DATS. 


CHAPTER  XL 

I 

SPECIAL  PLEADING. 

IT  was  over ! She  knew ! The  hope  which  may  have 
buoyed  my  spirits,  that  Philippa’s  agitation  at  learning 
of  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  death  was  hut  due  to  the  fact 
that  once  she  loved  the  man  entirely  vanished.  I could 
6ee  no  loophole  of  escape,  no  possibility  of  persuading 
her  that  she  was  fancying  horrors  which  had  never  taken 
place.  Moreover,  although  I would  have  given  my  life 
to  have  saved  her  from  the  knowledge  of  this  thing,  I 
could  not  meet  the  eyes  of  her  I loved,  and  lie  to  her. 

I did  indeed,  if  but  for  the  sake  of  gaining  time,  at- 
tempt to  stammer  out  some  evasive  answer;  but  she 
interrupted  me  before  I had  spoken  five  words. 

“ Why  do  I ask?”  she  echoed.  “I  knew  it  all — all — 
all ! In  dreams  it  has  come  to  me — the  whitened  road 
. — the  dull  dead  face — the  whirling  snow ! In  dreams  I 
have  stood  over  him,  and  said  to  myself,  ‘ He  is  dead ! ’ 
But,  Basil,  my  love,  my  husband,  I thought  it  was  but  a 
dream.  I drove  it  away.  I said,  ‘ It  must  be  a dream,  j 
I hated  him,  and  so  I dreamed  that  I killed  him.’  Basil, 
dearest  Basil,  tell  me,  if  you  can,  that  I dreamed  it!” 

Her  voice  sank  into  accents  of  piteous  entreaty.  She 
looked  at  me  yearningly. 

“ Dearest,  it  must  have  been  a dream,”  I said. 

She  threw  out  her  arms  wildly.  “ No,  no  l It  was 


125 


DAKK  DATS. 

bo  dream.  Even  now  I can  see  myself  standing  in  the 
night  over  that  motionless  form.  I can  feel  the  cold  air 
on  my  cheek.  I can  see  myself  flying  through  the  snow, 
Basil,  I hated  that  man,  and  I killed  him !” 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  my  cheeks.  I seized 
her  hands,  and  strove  to  draw  her  to  me.  She  tore  her- 
self from  my  grasp,  and  throwing  herself  wildly  on  the 
bed,  broke  into  a paroxysm  of  sobs.  As  I approached  her 
she  turned  her  head  from  me. 

“I  killed  him!  killed  him!”  she  whispered  in  awe- 
struck tones.  “ Oh,  that  fearful  night ! It  has  haunted 
me  ever  since.  I knew  not  why.  Now  I know!  He 
wronged  me,  and  I killed  him!  killed  him!” 

I placed  my  arm  around  her  neck,  and  my  cheek 
against  hers.  As  she  felt  my  touch  she  started  up 
wildly. 

“No,  no !”  she  cried.  “Touch  me  not!  Shun  me! 
Shrink  from  me!  Basil,  do  you  hear?  Do  you  under- 
stand ? I have  murdered  a man  !” 

Once  more  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  her  whole 
frame  quivering  with  anguish. 

“A  shamed — a ruined  woman !”  she  muttered.  “A 
villain’s  forsaken  toy,  and  now  a murderess ! You  have 
chosen  your  wife  well,  Basil !” 

“ Sweetest,  I love  you,”  I whispered. 

“Love  me!  How  can  you  love  me?  Such  love  is 
not  holy.  If  you  love  me,  aid  me  to  die,  Basil ! Give 
me  something  that  will  kill  me ! Why  did  you  save  my 
life  ?” 

“ Because  I loved  you  then,  as  I love  you  now.” 

She  was  silent,  and  I hoped  was  growing  calmer.  1 
was  but  waiting  for  the  first  shock  of  her  newly-born 
knowledge  to  pass  away,  in  order  to  reason  with  her,  and 


126 


DARK  DAYS. 


show  her  that  by  every  moral  law  she  was  guiltless  of  the 
fearful  crime.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  me. 

. “ How  did  I kill  him?”  she  said,  with  a shudder. 

“ Dearest,  rest.  We  will  talk  again  presen tly.” 

“ How  did  I kill  him  V ’ she  repeated  with  vehemence. 

“ He  was  found  shot  through  the  heart,”  I answered 
reluctantly. 

“Shot  through  his  heart — his  wicked  heart!  Shot  by 
me!  How  could  I have  shot  him ? With  what?  Basil, 
tell  me  all,  or  I shall  go  mad ! I will  not  have  the  small- 
est thing  concealed.  I will  know  all !” 

“ He  was  shot  with  a pistol.” 

“ A pistol ! a pistol ! How  did  I come  by  it  ? Where 
is  it?” 

“I  threw  it  away.” 

“ You  ? Then  you  knew !” 

I bowed  my  head.  I felt  that  concealment  was  useless. 
She  must  know  all. 

I told  her  everything.  I told  her  how  she  had  prom- 
ised to  come  for  me;  how*  as  she  d^d  not  keep  that 
promise,  I went  in  search  of  her.  ± told  her  how  she 
had  swept  past  me  in  the  snow-storm  ; how  I had  over- 
taken her.  I repeated  her  wild  words,  and  told  her  how 
the  fatal  weapon  had  fallen  at  my  feet,  and  how  I had, 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  hurled  it  away  into  the 
night;  how  she  had  broken  away  from  me,  and  fled  down 
the  lonely  road ; how,  excited  and  terrified  by  her  words, 
I had  gone  on  to  learn  their  meaning;  how  I had  found 
the  body  of  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand;  how,  without  thought 
of  concealing  the  deed,  I had  laid  the  dead  man  by  the 
roadside;  how  I had  rushed  home,  and  found  her,  Phi- 
lippa, waiting  for  me,  and  in  the  full  height  of  temporary 
Aiaauity.  I told  her  all  this,  and  I swore  that  from  the 


DARK  DATS. 


127 


moment  1 discovered  that  her  senses  had  gone  astray  I 
held  her,  although  she  had  done  so  dreadful  a deed,  a* 
innocent  of  crime  as  when  she  slept,  a babe,  on  her 
mother’s  breast. 

She  listened  to  me  with  fixed  dilated  eyes.  She  inter- 
rupted me  neither  by  word  nor  gesture ; but  when  I had 
finished  speaking  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  great  tears  trickled  through  her  fingers.  44  No  hope ! 
No  hope!*  she  cried.  44  Oh,  Basil,  I dared  to  hope  that 
something  you  would  tell  me  would  show  me  it  was  not 
my  hand  which  did  this  thing!  My  love,  my  own  love, 
we  have  been  so  happy  while  I could  persuade  myself 
all  this  was  a dream!  We  shall  be  happy  no  more. 
Basil!” 

Although  she  still  shrank  from  me,  by  force  I drew 
her  to  me,  and  laid  that  poor  head  on  my  shoulder.  I 
stroked  the  smooth  black  silky  hair,  I kissed  the  white 
forehead,  and  used  every  endearing  and  soothing  expres- 
sion that  love  such  as  mine  could  suggest.  In  vain  ! The 
moment  I loosened  my  hold  my  wife  fled  from  my  side. 

44 Basil,”  she  cried,  44 you  knew  it!  You  knew  the 
blood  of  a man  was  on  my  hands ! Again  I say  such 
love  is  not  holy !” 

44  Dearest,  again  I tell  you  that  in  my  eyes — if  the 
truth  were  known,  in  the  eyes  of  all — you  are  innocent 

I as  a babe.” 

She  shook  her  head  hopelessly,  I saw  that  nothing  at 
present  could  move  her.  Perhaps  it  was  more  than  I 
had  a right  to  expect.  So  for  the  time  I gave  up  argu- 
ing. I begged  her  for  my  sake  to  retire  to  rest.  I gave 
her  a soothing  draught.  I sat  by  her  for  hours,  and  held 
her  hand,  until  at  last  her  eyelids  fell,  and,  worn  out  by 
grief,  she  slept. 


DARK  DAYS. 


128 

Oh,  how  right  I had  been  in  choosing  flight ! Ah 
though  a cursed  chance  had  revealed  what  I fondly  hoped 
Would  be  forever  buried  in  oblivion,  how  right  1 had 
been ! Had  the  hands  of  Justice  grasped  my  sweet  wife, 
although  she  might  no  doubt  have  been  found  guiltless, 
the  trial,  the  exposure,  would  have  killed  her.  Thank 
heaven,  she  was  safe,  and  amenable  only  to  the  tribunal 
t>f  her  own  sensitive  conscience ! 

When  I heard  her  breathing  grow  regular,  and  knew 
that  she  was  in  a deep  sleep,  I pressed  my  lips  gently  to 
her  fair  cheek,  and  left  her.  I went  in  search  of  my 
mother,  and  made  the  best  tale  I could  think  of  to  ac- 
count for  Philippa’s  indisposition.  I forced  myself  to 
wear  a smiling  face,  and  to  listen  with  a show  of  interest 
to  the  account  my  mother  gave  me  of  certain  difficulties 
which  had  during  my  absence  arisen  with  some  of  the 
native  servants.  But  there  was  nothing  which  could 
really  interest  me  when  I thought  of  my  poor  love  lying 
there  sleeping,  to  awake,  alas ! to  sorrow,  and  remorse. 
No  wonder  that,  as  soon  as  I had  spent  with  my  mother 
the  smallest  portion  of  time  which  filial  duty  and  grati- 
tude exacted,  I flew  back  to  Philippa’s  bedside. 

I watched  beside  her  until  she  awoke— until  her  splen- 
did dark  eyes  unveiled  themselves.  I leaned  over  and 
kissed  her  passionately.  Between  sleeping  and  waking, 
while  consciousness  was  yet  in  abeyance,  she  returned  my 
caresses.  Then  came  back  memory  and  its  terrors. 

“ Leave  me,”  she  said  ; a I am  a murderess ! 

“ Once  more  I denied  it ; once  more  I told  her  she  was 
innocent.  My  only  hope  was,  that  by  continued  argu- 
ment I might  in  time  ease  her  mind.  She  listened 
almost  apathetically.  I grew  eloquent  and  passionate. 
Was  I not  pleading  for  my  own  sake  as  well  as  hers! 


I 


DARK  DATS. 


129 


If  I could  but  persuade  her  she  was  unaccountable  for 
what  she  had  done,  some  remnant  of  the  happiness  which 
a few  days  ago  I had  promised  myself  might  even  now 
be  left. 

“ Basil,”  she  whispered,  “ I have  been  dreaming  horri- 
ble tilings.  Will  they  try  me — and  hang  me?” 

“We  are  in  Spain,  dearest.  Even  if  you  were  guilty, 
the  English  law  could  not  reach  you.” 

She  started.  “ And  it  was  for  this  you  hurried  to 
Spain  ? To  save  me  from  a felon’s  death  ?” 

“To  save  you  from  what,  in  your  state  at  the  time, 
you  could  not  bear.  I say  again  you  are  innocent,  but  I 
dare  not  risk  the  trial.” 

She  was  silent  for  some  minutes ; then  she  spoke. 

“ I am  proud,  passionate,  wicked,”  she  said ; “ but  I 
could  never  have  meant  to  do  this.  I was  mad!  I must 
| have  been  mad ! Basil,  you  could  tell  them  I was  mad. 

; They  would  believe  you,  and  forgive  me.” 

She  looked  at  me  imploringly. 

“ I could  stand  up,”  I said,  “ and  state  on  oath  that  you 
were  at  the  time  in  a raging  delirium.  I could  pledge 
l my  professional  reputation  t^iat  your  actions  were  the 
I result  of  madness.  Fear  nothing  on  that  score,  my 
* wife.” 

I spoke  boldly ) but  as  I spoke  a thought  shot  through 
me — a thought  which  blanched  my  cheek  and  brought 
the  beads  of  perspiration  to  my  brow.  I knew  enough 
of  law  to  be  aware  that  a husband  could  not  in  a criminal 
v-  case  give  evidence  for  or  against  his  wife.  My  marriage 
with  Philippa  had  deprived  her  of  the  benefit  of  my 
testimony  as  to  her  insanity.  I trembled  like  a leaf  as 
I pictured  what  might  happen  in  the  e^ent  of  her  being 
tried  for  the  murder  of  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand.  The  very 


130 


DA  UK  DAYS. 


nurses  liad  but  seen  her  sane.  No  one  but  myself  and 
perhaps  my  servant  had  seen  her  in  her  madness. 

My  dismay  was  such  that  I was  bound  to  leave  the 
room,  in  order  to  recover  my  presence  of  mind.  Again 
and  again  I thanked  Heaven  that  we  were  on  foreign  soil. 
The  thought  that  my  unreasoning  love  might  have  de- 
stroyed her  I loved  was  almost  more  than  I could  bear. 

I fancy  I have  lingered  long  enough  over  that  terrible 
time,  when  my  wife  first  learned  that  the  dream  which 
had  haunted  her  was  reality — that  her  hand  had  unknow- 
ingly avenged  her  supposed  and  premeditated  wrong. 
Let  me  but  say  that  the  mental  anguish  into  which  the 
knowledge  plunged  her  was  not  unattended  by  physical 
evil.  In  fact,  for  many  days  my  poor  girl  was  ill,  very 
ill.  My  mother  and  I nursed  her  with  every  care,  and 
by  and  by  youth  and  a splendid  constitution  reasserted 
themselves,  and,  a shadow  of  her  former  self,  she  was  able 
to  leave  her  bed.  My  mother  was  tenderness  itself  to 
her  daughter.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  true  cause  of 
her  illness;  indeed,  she  blamed  me  roundly  for  not  having 
taken  proper  care  of  my  beautiful  bride,  and  vowed 
laughingly  that  for  the  future  nothing  should  induce  her 
to  trust  Philippa  out  of  her  sight. 

Now  that  Philippa  knew  all  she  had  done,  I thought 
it  better  to  tell  her  that,  although  he  had  no  intention 
of  so  doing,  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand,  in  causing  a mock 
marriage  to  be  celebrated,  had  by  a strange  chance  really 
made  her  his  wife.  This  gave  her  little  comfort.  “It 
makes  my  crime  the  greater,”  she  said  bitterly.  “I 
have  killed  my  husband  instead  of  my  seducer  ! I am 
not  fit  to  live  !” 

Weeks  went  by.  Philippa  gradually  grew  stronger, 
and,  what  was  even  more  a cause  of  joy  to  me,  calmer 


BARK  DATS. 


131 


and  more  reasonable  on  a certain  subject.  With  all  the 
power  I conld  bring  to  bear,  I liad  never  ceased  to  im- 
press upon  her  that  morally  she  was  innocent,  and  I 
believed  my  words  were  bearing  fruit.  Pier  fits  of 
mental  anguish  and  self-reproach  grew  of  less  frequent 
occurrence.  She  did  not,  whenever  we  were  alone,  con- 
tinually harp  upon  her  crime.  Calm  seemed  to  settle 
upon  us  once  more,  and  I ventured' to  hope  that  the 
great  physician,  Time,  would  one  day  bring  to  my  wife’s 
heart  something  that  might  be  called  sorrowful  happi- 
ness; but  I knew  I must  wait  years  and  years  for  this. 

She  was  changed,  greatly  changed.  Her  lips  seldom 
smiled:  her  eyes  never  brightened,  unless  when  she  saw 
me  drawing  near.  She  seemed  older  and  graver.  But 

I knew,  m spite  of  all,  she  loved  me  with  a deathless 
love. 

Although  at  last  we  had  ceased  to  discuss  the  sorrow 
of  our  life,  I suspected  it  was  seldom  absent  from  her 
mind.  Sometimes  as  I lay  beside  her  I heard  her  moan, 
ing  and  talking  in  her  troubled  dreams,  and  too  well  I 
knew  the  cause.  As  my  arm  stole  round  her.  and  assured 
her  of  the  safety  and  certainty  of  my  great  love,  in  my 
heart  I cursed  the  dead  man  whose  evil  deed  Jiad  brought 
such  lasting  woe  on  the  fair  head  pillowed  on  my  bosom. 
Ah  me!  what  life  might  have  been  for  us  two,  now  that 
love  reigned  between  ns! 

Once— it  was  shortly  after  Philippa  began  to  creep,  a 
weak  in  valid,  about  the  fragrant  patio— she  said  to  me, 
with  evident  meaning  in  her  voice, 

“ Basil,  do  you  see  the  London  papers  ?” 

“ Sometimes— not  always.  I have  almost  forgotten 

England.”  6 

“ Promise  me  you  will  see  them  every  day.” 


132 


dare  days. 


a t w;ii  if  you  wish ; bat  why  ? _ . 

I win,  yv  ’ not  guess?  Basil,  listen. 

Her  voice  sank.  7 ^ J am  praying 

I have  consented  to  be  gn  Id  77  think. 

that  the  day  may  come  when  1 of  the 

^ ^ice  d0f  607hintedTtahy 
Philippa.  No , Sir  Me  y wife  at  ease 

should  bo  posted  to  me  every  day. 


133 


DARK  DAYS, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TEMPTED  TO  DISHONOR. 

T HATE  looking  back  and  re-reading  words  which  I 
have  written  while  the  impulse  was  upon  me ; but  I 
fancy  I have  somewhere  called  this  tale  a confession  ; if 
not,  I should  have  done  so.  It  claims  no  more  to  be 
ranked  as  a work  of  art  than  as  a work  of  imagination. 
How  could  it  ? It  holds  only  two  characters — a man  and 
a woman.  It  treats  but  of  their  love  and  of  a few  months 
of  their  lives.  Nevertheless,  in  telling  it  I have  en- 
deavored to  conceal  nothing.  I have  tried  to  describe 
my  thoughts,  my  hopes,  my  fears,  my  sorrows,  and  my 
joys,  as  they  really  were.  I have,  I believe,  suppressed 
nothing  which  could  lead  any  one  to  condemn  my  actions 
more  strongly  than,  it  may  be,  they  now  condemn  them. 
My  wish  has  been  to  show  myself  as  I was  then — no 
doubt  am  now — a weak,  selfish  man;  yet,  for  the  love 
which  he  bore  a woman,  one  willing  to  risk  fortune,  life, 
even  honor.  If  I have  failed  in  my  attempt  to  represent 
myself  as  such  a one,  believe  it  is  not  from  intention,  but 
from  sheer  inability. 

Bat  whether  I have  so  far  succeeded  or  failed  in  my 
purpose  I know  not;  but  I know  that  in  this  chapter  I 
mast,  perforce,  fail.  The  language  rich  and  powerful 
enough  to  serve  my  needs  has  yet  to  be  invented.  The 
writer  who  could  in  any  fitting  way  reproduce  my 
thoughts  has  yet  to  be  born. 


134 


DARK  DATS. 


And  yet  the  chapter  will  be  a short  one.  It  will  be 
bnt  the  record  of  a few  hours;  bnt  such  hours  1 Hours 
during  which  I struggled  against  a temptation  to  com- 
mit, not  only  crime,  but  base,  cowardly  crime;  a tempta- 
tion stronger,  I dare  to  think,  than  poor  human  nature 
'has  as  yet  been  subjected  to.  My  words  sound  bold ; 

but  listen.  ' . . 

Oh,  that  one  morning ! How  well  I can  remember  1 . 

Our  breakfast  was  just  over.  The  quaint-shaped  bttle 
table,  with  its  snowy  cloth  throwing  into  relief  the  deep 
colors  of  the  luscious  fruit  upon  it,  still  stood  in  the 
awning-roofed  patio.  I was  alone,  my  mother  an 
Philippa  having  retired  in-doors  to  see  about  some  do- 
mestic economy.  I lounged  lazily  and  at  my  ease.  1 
rolled  and  lighted  a cigarette,  blaming  myself  as  I did  so 
for  my  barbarity  in  profaning  the  blossom-scented  air 
with  tobacco-smoke.  Then  I took  from  my  pocket  the 
London  Times,  which  had  arrived  by  the  last  post,  and 
listlessly  set  to  work  to  skim  its  lengthy  columns.  . 

I had  no  fear  as  to  what  the  paper  might  contain.  It 
was  not  from  newspaper  reports  that  I apprehended 
danger.  I had,  however,  noticed  that  Philippa,  when 
she  saw  me  with  a newspaper  in  my  hand,  eyed  me 
anxiously  and  inquiringly  ; so  that  generally  I contrive 
to  dance  through  it  when  she  was  absent.  I never  per- 
mitted her  to  touch  it  until  I had  read  it ; but  my  only 
reason  for  this  prohibition  was,  that  I feared  lest  some 
chance  allusion  to  the  mysterious  and  undiscovered  crime 
might  distress  her.  Her  own  far-fetched  fancy  that  an- 
other  might  be  accused  of  it  gave  me  not  a moment’s  un- 
easiness. 

So  I turned  and  doubled  back  the  broad  sheets.  1 ran 
down  the  topics  of  the  day.  I skimmed  the  leading 


DAKK  DAYS* 


135 


articles.  I glanced  at  the  foreign  news;  paid  scant  at- 
tention to  law  reports,  and  disregarded  altogether  the 
money-market  intelligence.  At  last  I turned  my  at- 
tention to  the  provincial  news  column.  A name  caught 
my  eye;  a cold  shiver  of  dread  ran  through  me.  My 
cigarette  fell  on  the  marble  pavement,  and  lay  there  un- 
heeded, as,  with  agitation  which  no  words  can  describe,  I 
read  a short  paragraph  placed  under  the  heading  of  the 
principal  town  of  the  county  in  which  Roding  was  situ- 
ated. Read ! 

“ William  Evans,  the  man  accused  of  the  murder  of 
Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand,  Bart.,  in  January  last,  will  be  tried 
at  these  Assizes,  which  open  on  the  twentieth.  The  case, 
which  excites  considerable  interest,  will  be  taken  on  t-lie 
first  day.  It  is  reported  that  although  fresh  evidence 
against  the  prisoner  will  be  forthcoming,  it  will  be  of  a 
purely  circumstantial  nature.” 

Every  word  of  that  accursed  paragraph  seemed  like  a 
blow  falling  upon  my  head.  For  some  minutes  I sat  as 
one  stunned.  I felt  my  teeth  chattering.  I knew  that 
my  cheek  was  blanched.  Philippa’s  fanciful  dread  had 
come  to  pass ! Another — an  innocent  man — was  bearing 
the  blame  of  her  own  mad  act ! Dazed,  stupid,  scarcely 
able  to  comprehend  what  must  be  the  full  effect  of  what 
I had  just  read,  I sat  motionless,  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon 
that  fatal  sheet. 

The  sound  of  my  mother’s  pleasant  voice  calling  to 
Philippa  at  last  awoke  me  from  my  stupor.  They  were 
coming.  I could  not  face  them.  I doubled  up  the  news- 
paper, thrust  it  into  my  pocket,  and  rushed  out  into  the 
street.  As  yet  I had  not  dared  to  imagine  what  this  in- 
telligence might  mean  to  us.  I must  have  long  hours 


136 


DARK  DATS. 


of  solitude,  in  order  to  decide  wliat  course  should  be 

adopted  to  face  this,  the  last,  the  worst  peril 

I passed  swiftly  through  the  iron  gate.  I went  up  the 
narrow  street  at  a pace  which  must  have  made  all  who 
saw  me  think  me  mad.  Whither  did  I go?  I scarcely 
remember.  I think  it  must  have  been  to  one  of  the  pub- 
lic gardens  ; but  in  that  hour  all  sense  of  locality  left  me. 

I went  instinctively  in  search  of  solitude.  I found,  I 
know  not  how  or  where,  some  shady  deserted  spot. 
There,  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart,  amid  the  wreck  of 
my  sand-founded  happiness,  I threw  myself  on  the 
ground,  and  dug  my  finger-nails  into  the  dry  soil. 

At  first  I thought  I was  going  or  had  gone  mad.  Ihe 
thoughts  which  rushed  through  my  miijd  were  disjointed, 
and  wanted  coherence.  An  innocent  man  accused  of  the 
crime ! To  be  tried  on  the  twentieth  ! The  twentieth  ! 
and  now  it  is  the  sixteenth!  Fresh  evidence  forth- 
coming ! The  fools— the  utter  fools ! This  the  boasted 
detective  skill ! To  arrest  on  suspicion,  to  bring  to  trial 
a man  who  must  be  ignorant  of  everything  connected 
with  the  murder ! What  is  to  be  done  * Wliat  can  be 
done  ? Oh,  my  wife ! my  poor  darling  wife ! 

Then,  I believe,  I cried  like  a child.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  all  was  lost.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done- 
one  course  to  be  taken.  My  darling  must  gi  ve  herself  up 
to  justice,  and  by  her  confession  free  this  luckless  wretch 
who  now  stands  in  peril  of  his  life.  She  must  bear  the 
shame  of  the  trial,  and  trust  to  human  justice  and  the 
mercy  which  she  had  a right  to  expect.  Oh,  it  was  piti- 
ful, pitiful ! For  a long  while  no  alternative  course  sug- 
gested  itself  to  me. 

Human  justice!  What  is  justice?  See  how  it  can 
err ! It  can  arrest,  try,  and — oh,  horrible  thought !— • 


DARK  DATS, 


1S7 

perhaps  condemn  to  death  an  innocent  man ! How  then 
would  it  fare  with  Philippa?  Who,  now  that  marriage 
has  sealed  my  lips,  was  there  to  prove  her  madness  when 
she  slew  that  man  ? I raged  at  the  thought.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  we  were  hard  and  fast  in  the  toils.  I might, 
it  is  true,  call  William,  my  servant,  to  swear  that  her 
manner  was  strange  and  wild  upon  that  night.  I might 
call  the  nurses  to  prove  that  when  first  they  saw  her  she 
was  recovering  from  an  attack  of  mania.  But  would 
they  be  credited?  Would  not  a clever  lawyer  soon  con- 
vince  twelve  ordinary  men  that  it  was  not  her  madness 
which  prompted  the  crime,  but  the  crime  which  produced 
the  madness?  We  were  indeed  meshed  and  bound; 
hemmed  in  on  every  side  ; helpless  and,  it  seemed,  hope- 
less ! 

And  Philippa  must  be  told  this ! I must  tell  her ! 
How  could  I nerve  myself  to  make  the  truth  known  to 
per — now,  of  all  times,  when  her  health  was  all  but  re- 
stored ; when  a kind  of  sad  but  placid  acquiescence  in 
what  fate  had  wrought  seemed  to  be  gradually  coming 
over  her ; now,  when  I was  once  more  building  up  hopes 
of  happiness  for  her  as  well  as  for  me ! For  I knew — 
ah ! think  of  this,  and  pity  me — that  before  another  half 
year  should  pass  there  might  be  given  to  my  wife  and 
me  a gift  which  would  go  far  toward  sweeping  away  the 
memories  of  gloom  and  horror  which  had  of  late  spread 
over  our  lives.  I even  dared  to  hope,  to  feel  certain,  that 
as  she  gazed  into  baby  eyes,  as  she  pressed  a tiny  head 
to  her  bosom,  some,  nay,  much  of  the  lost  sweetness  and 
glory  of  life  might  return  to  my  love. 

Think  of  this,  and  picture  me  lying  on  the  ground  that 
day,  with  the  damning  intelligence  fresh  on  my  mind  ! 
Think  that  in  a few  hours  I must  return  to  my  home. 


138 


DARK  DATS. 


and  tell  my  wife  that  the  bolt  had  fallen ! There  was 
no  alternative ! 

No  alternative?  Stay,  there  is  an  alternative!  The 
blood  seemed  to  course  wildly  through  my  veins,  my 
heart  beat  fiercely,  my  lips  grew  dry,  and  a choking  sen- 
sation came  over  me,  as  for  the  first  time  the  simple  yet 
certain  way  of  cutting  the  knot  of  my  difficulties  flashed 
across  my  mind.  So  simple,  so  easy  it  at  first  appeared, 
that  I laughed  at  my  stupidity  in  not  having  seen  it  at 
once. 

Tear  that  accursed  paper  to  pieces,  Basil  North ! Scat- 
ter those  pieces  to  the  winds.  Forget  what  you  have 
read.  Go  back  to  your  luxurious,  flower-bedecked  home. 
Meet  the  one  you  love  with  a smile  upon  your  face : you 
have  forced  smiles  before  now ! Greet  her  as  usual. 
Say  nothing  of  this  morning’s  news.  Keep  your  own 
counsel ; bury  all  you  have  learned  in  your  secret  heart. 
Do  this,  and  be  happy  forever  more ! 

But  the  man— the  man  who  in  a few  days’  time  is  to  be 
tried  for  another’s  act?  Well,  what  of  him?  The  fool 
will  doubtless  be  acquitted.  Fool ! Yes,  it  is  the  right 
term  for  one  who  can  bring  himself  under  suspicion. 
But  if  Justice  runs  on  the  wrong  track  until  the  end  if 
that  man  dies  ? 

What  then  ? What  is  this  miserable  life,  what  are  a 
hundred  lives  when  weighed  against  Philippa’s  happi- 
ness ? What  is  conscience  ? What  is  right  and  wrong  ? 
What  is  the  phantom  which  men  call  honor  ? What, 
after  all,  is  crime  ? Be  silent,  aud  forget.  You  are 
asked  to  do  no  more.  You  have  riches,  youth,  health, 
and  strong  will.  The  fairest  woman  on  the  earth  adores 
you.  Why  hesitate  ? Why  let  one  boor5 s life  weigh  in 
the  scale  ? 


DARK  DAYS. 


139 


Argue  the  matter  in  another  way.  Are  not  thousands 
©f  men  slain  every  year  by  the  whim  of  a monarch  or  a 
statesman?  The  thought  of  their  death  troubles  not 
those  who  send  them  forth  to  fight.  Men  kill  each  other 
for  revenge,  for  money,  for  a point  of  honor,  and  the 
killer  lives  on  like  other  men  live  ! Trust  this  man  to 
the  vaunted  array  of  Justice.  He  is  innocent,  and  will 
come  from  the  ordeal  unscathed.  If  found  guilty,  let 
him  die.  He  will  not  be  the  first  innocent  man  who  has 
died,  nor  will  he  be  the  last  to  die.  It  is  but  one  life ! 
He  is  nothing  to  you ; think  of  him  no  more.  Come 
what  may,  you  will  always  have  your  sunny  home  and 
the  woman  you  love.  Her  children  will  grow  up  around 
you.  Why  hesitate  ? A life’s  happiness  is  to  be  won  by 
simply  sealing  your  lips.  Its  cost  is  but,  supposing  Justice 
blunders,  to  bear  the  burden  of  one  man’s  death.  A 
paltry  price! 

This  was  the  temptation  with  which  I wrestled  during 
those  long  hours.  Again  and  again  I was  on  the  point  of 
yielding.  Once  or  twice  I rose  to  my  fept  with  the  fixed 
determination  of  destroying  that  paper,  and  letting  things 
take  their  own  oourse.  Once  or  twice  I even  forced  my 
steps  some  distance  in  the,  direction  of  home,  but  each 
time  I turned,  went  back  to  the  sheltered  spot,  threw 
myself  again  on  the  ground,  and  fought  the  battle  anew. 

No,  I could  not  do  this  thing.  I was  a gentleman  and 
a man  of  honor.  Paltry  as  the  price  was  when  compared 
with  what  it  might  buy,  I could  not  pay  it.  Although 
my  whole  soul  was  merged  in  Philippa’s  welfare,  I could 
not,  even  for  her  sake,  suffer  an  innocent  man  to  be 
done  unjustly  to  death.  The  crime  was  too  black,  too 
base,  too  contemptible!  I felt  sure  that,  with  the  man’s 
blood  morally  on  my  head,  the  supremest  joys  which  life 


140 


DARK  DATS. 


could  give  would  not  lull  my  conscience  to  rest.  I knew 
it  would  not  be  long  before  remorse  and  shame  drove  me 
to  commit  suicide. 

Let  the  preachers  say  that  sin  is  easy ; that  wrong  is 
more  alluring  than  right.  There  may  be  some  sins  which 
are  easily  committed,  but  I dare  to  say  that  there  are 
others  which  the  average  man,  educated  by  the  code  of 
honor,  and  dreading  shame  and  cowardice,  finds  it  far 
easier  to  avoid  than  to  bring  himself  to  commit.  No, 
every  sin  is  not  easy  ! 

But  all  the  same  my  struggle  was  a mortal  one.  At 
times  I fancy — it  may  be  but  fancy — that  even  now  my 
mind  bears  some  traces  of  that  conflict;  a conflict  in 
which  my  victory  meant  ruin  to  my  nearest  and  dearest. 
Was  I not  right  when  I said  that  my  temptation  was  an 
all  but  unparalleled  one?  Yet  in  reasserting  this  let  me 
humbly  disclaim  all  credit  for  not  having  yielded.  I 
strove  to  yield,  but  could  not. 

It  was  only  when  I had  conquered,  and  put  the  temp- 
tation from  me,  that  I was  able  to  see  how  utterly  useless 
such  a crime  as  that  urged  upon  me  would  have  been. 
Doubtless  Philippa,  sooner  or  later,  would  have  learned 
that  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand’s  supposed  murderer  had  paid 
the  penalty  of  the  crime..  How  would  it  have  fared  with 
Us  then — then,  when  reparation  was  placed  out  of  the 
question  ? Knowing  as  I did  every  thought  of  my  wife’s, 
every  turn  of  her  impulsive,  sensitive  nature,  I was  fain 
to  tell  myself  that  such  news  would  be  simply  her  death- 
blow. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  ? Finding  that  I could  not 
compass  the  treachery  which  I dared  to  meditate,  I cast 
about  for  another  loophole  of  escape.  What  if  I were  to 
return  to  England,  and  accuse  myself  of  the  crime  ? To 


DARK  BAYS. 


141 


insure  Philippa’s  safety  I wouldriglit  willingly  give 
away  my  own  life.  It  showed  the  state  to  which  my 
mind  was  reduced  when  I say  that  I considered  this 
scheme  in  all  its  bearings,  and  for  a while  thought  it 
furnished  a solution  to  my  difficulties!  I wonder  if  my 
brain  was  wandering? 

I laughed  In  bitter  merriment  as  the  absurdity  of  my 
new  plan  forced  itself  upon  me.  I had  forgotten  Phi- 
lippa, and  what  the  effect  of  such  a sacrifice  would  be 
upon  her.  I had  forgotten  that  she  loved  me,  even  as  I 
loved  her;  that  my  dying  for  her  sake— for  the  sake  of 
saving  her  from  the  consequences  of  that  gruesome  night 
—would  make  an  expiation,  if  any  were  due  from  her, 
the  most  fearful  which  human  or  diabolical  ingenuity 
could  devise. 

No!  Neither  by  sinning  against  my  fellow-man  nor 
by  a voluntary  sacrifice  of  my  own  life  could  I save  her. 
After  all  my  protracted  mental  struggles,  all  my  lonely 
hours  of  anguish  and  wild  scheming,  I was  forced  to  re- 
turn to  the  point  from  which  I started.  Philippa  must 
surrender  herself,  and  free  this  innocent  man.  There 

was,  indeed,  no  alternative! 

And  a day  gone,  or  all- but  gone!  The  trial  on  the 
twentieth ! To  reach  England— to  reach  Tewnliam  in 
time  to  stop  that  trial,  we  must  travel  day  and  night. 
Day  and  night,  across  sunny  or  starlit  Spain  acioss 
pleasant  France— we  must  speed  on,  until  we  reached  our 
own  native  land,  now  lying  in  all  the  rich  calm  of  the  early 
autumn.  I must  lead  my  wife,  my  love,  to  her  doom  ! 

I rose  from  the  ground.  I felt  weary,  and  as  if  I had 
been  cudgelled  in  every  limb.  'I  dragged  myself  slowly 
back  to  my  home.  “She  must  be  told;  she  must  be 
told.  But  how  to  tell  her  ?”  1 muttered  as  I went  along. 


142  ' 


DARK  DATS. 


My  appearance  must  have  been  wretched ; for  I received 
the  impression  that  several  grave-looking  Sfivillanos 
turned  and  looked  after  me  as  I passed  by.  Even  as  a 
cowardly  felon  who  drags  himself  slowly  to  the  scaffold, 
I dragged  myself  to  the  gate  of  our  pleasant  home,  and 
on  tottering  feet  passed  into  that  fragrant  space  in  which 
the  happiest  hours  of  my  life  had  been  spent. 

As  I entered,  the  remembrance  of  some  tale  which 
once  I had  read  flashed  through  my  mind — a tale  of  the 
ferocity  of  a by-gone  age.  It  was  of  a prisoner  who  was 
forced  by  his  captors  to  strike  a dagger  into  the  heart  of 
the  woman  he  loved.  I know  not  where  the  tale  is  to  be 
found  #r  when  I read  it. 

But  it  awmed  to  me  that  mine  was  a parallel  <^0, 

Pity  m4  i 


DARK  DAYS. 


143 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  LAST  HOPE, 

THEY  were  sitting  in  the  courtyard,  my  mother  and 
my  wife.  They  looked  the  embodiment  of  serene 
happiness.  Their  large  fans-the  use  of  the  fan  came 
like  an  inspiration  to  Philippa,  my  mother  acquired  it 
after  much  practice— were  languidly  waving  to  and  fro. 
Philippa’s  rounded  arm  was  outstretched  ; her  fair  left 
hand  was  in  the  clear  water  which  fell  from  the  foun- 
tain and  filled  a white  marble  basin,  in  which  the  gold 
carp  darted  about  in  erratic  tacks.  She  was  moving  her 
finders  gently  backward  and  forward,  startling  the  timid 
fish,  and  half  smiling  at  their  terror.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  my  mother  was  remonstrating  at  the  uproar  she  was 
creating  in  the  brilliant-coated  republic.  _ 

That  picture  is  still  in  my  mind.  That  picture . I 
can  sit  now  in  my  chair,  lay  down  my  pen,  and  call  up 
every  picture  of  that  time.  Nothing,  save  the  grief,  has 
ever  faded,  or  ever  will  fade,  from  my  memory. 

It  was  well  for  both  of  us  that  I had  fought  out  the 
battle  with  myself  in  solitude,  where  no  eye  could  see 
me  where  I could  see  no  one.  Even  as  it  was,  knowing 
what  a change  my  news  must  work,  I paused,  and  a 
ghost  of  the  day’s  temptation  rose  before  me.  But  it 
rose  too  late.  The  die  was  cast.  Philippa  had  seen 
me,  and  my  mother’s  eyes  followed  hers.  I braced  my- 
self up,  and  went  toward  them  with  as  jaunty  a manner 


144 


DARK  DATS. 


as  I could  assume.  My  mother  began  a mock  tirade  on 
my  shameful  desertion  of  Philippa  and  herself.  Her 
words  carried  no  meaning  to  my  ears.  My  eyes  met 
those  of  my  wife. 

With  her  I made  no  attempt  at  concealment.  Where 
was  the  good?  The  worst,  the  very  worst  had  come. 
My  eyes  must  have  told  her  the  truth. 

I saw  her  sweet  face  catch  fire  with  alarm.  I saw  her 
lips  quiver.  I saw  the  look  of  anguish  flash  into  her 
eJes  5 ye^  I knew  that  I was  helpless,  utterly  helpless. 

She  rose.  I made  some  conventional  excuse  and  went 
to  my  room.  In  a moment  Philippa  was  at  my  side. 

“ Basil,  husband,  love,”  she  whispered,  “ it  has  come !” 

I laid  mv  head  on  the  table  and  sobbed  aloud,  Phi- 
lippa’s arms  were  wreathed  around  my  neck. 

u Dearest,  I knew  it  must  come.  I have  known  it 

ever  so  long.  Basil,  do  not  weep.  Once  more,  I tell 

you  I am  not  wortli  such  love  as  vours.” 

«/ 

I covered  lier  dear  face  with  kisses.  I strained  her  to 
my  heart.  I lavished  words  of  love  upon  her.  She 
smiled  faintly,  then  sighed  hopelessly — a sigh  which 
almost  broke  my  heart. 

Tell  me  all,  my  love,”  she  said,  calmly.  “Let  me 
know  the  very  worst.” 

I could  not  speak  ; for  the  life  of  me  the  words  would 
not  come.  "With  trembling  hands  I drew  out  the  news- 
paper, and  pointed  to  the  fatal  lines.  She  read  them 
with  a calm  which  almost  alarmed  me. 

C(I  knew  it  must  be,”  was  all  she  said. 

I threw  myself  on  my  knees  before  her.  I embraced 
her.  I was  half  distraught.  Save  for  my  wild  ejacula- 
tions of  undying  love,  there  was  silence  for  many  min- 
utes between  us. 


DARK  DATS. 


143 


Presently,  with  great  force,  she  raised  my  head,  and 
looked  at  me  with  her  sweet  and  sorrowful  eyes. 

“ Basil,  my  dearest,  you  have  been  wrong.  The  right 
is  right,  the  wrong  is  wrong.  See  what  you  have  done  ! 
Hadyon  not  striven  to  save  me,  only  I should  have  had 
to  answer  for  this.  Now  it  is  you  and  me,  and  perhaps 
a third— an  innocent,  stainless  life,  that  will  be  wrecked. 

“Spare  me!  Spare  me!”  I said.  “As  you  love  me, 
spare  me !” 

She  kissed  me.  “Dearest,  forgive  me.  I should 
not  blame  you.  Only  I am  to  blame.”  Then,  with  a 
sudden  change  in  her  voice,  “ When  do  we  start  for 
England,  Basil  ?” 

Although  I expected  this  question,  I trembled  and 
shuddered  as  I heard  it.  Too  well  I knew  what  England 
meant.  It  meant  Philippa’s  standing  in  open  court,  in  a 
prisoner’s  dock,  the  center  of  a gaping  crowd,  self-ac- 
cused of  the  murder  of  her  husband  ! And  as  I pictured 
this,  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  the  temptation 
shook  me. 

I spoke,  but  I averted  my  eyes  from  hers.  I could 
not  meet  them.  My  voice  was  husky  and  strange ; it 
sounded  like  the  voice  of  another  man.  A sort  of  under- 
current of  thought  ran  through  me,  that  if  Philippa 
would  but  share  it,  I could  bear  any  burden,  any  dis- 
honor. 

“Listen!”  I said,  in  quick  accents.  “ We  are  far  away ; 
safe.  We  love  each  other.  We  can  be  happy.  Let  the 
man  take  his  chance.  What  does  anything  matter,  so 
Jong  as  we  love  and  are  together?” 

L felt  that  her  eyes  were  seeking  mine.  I felt  a change 
in  the  clasp  of  her  hand.  I knew  that  she  was  nobler 
and  better  than  I, 


146 


DARK  DAYS. 


“ Basil,”  she  said  softly,  and  speaking  like  one  in  a 
dream,  “ it  was  not  my  husband,  not  the  man  I love,  who 
said  that.  I forgive  you  for  the  sake  of  your  great  love, 
for  the  sake  of  all  you  have  done,  or  tried  to  do,  for  me. 
Tell  me  now,  when  do  we  start  for  England  2” 

Her  words  brought  back  my  senses.  Never  in  the 
wildest  height  of  my  passion  had  I loved  Philippa  as  I 
loved  her  at  that  moment.  I besought  her  pardon.  She 
gave  it,  and  once  more  repeated  her  question. 

With  the  calm  of  settled  despair  I consulted  the  rail- 
way-guide, and  “found  that  if  we  left  Seville  to  morrow 
morning  by  the  first  train,  we  might,  by  travelling  day 
and  night,  early  on  the  morning  of  the  twentieth  reach 
the  town  in  which  the  trial  was  to  be  held.  I made  the 
result  of  my  researches  known  to  my  wife ; and  upon 
my  assuring  her  that  we  should  have  time  to  spare,  she 
left  all  the  arrangement  of  the  journey  to  me. 

After  this,  another  painful  question  arose.  Was  my 
mother  to  be  told  2 Philippa,  who  may,  perhaps,  in  her 
secret  heart  have  craved  for  a woman’s  support  and  sym- 
pathy in  her  approaching  trial,  at  first  insisted  that  my 
mother  should  be  taken  into  our  confidence — a confidence 
which,  alas ! in  a few  days’  time  would  be  gossip  to  the 
world.  I besought  her  to  waive  the  point,  to  spare  my 
mother’s  feelings  until  the  very  last  moment.  We  could 
not  take  her  with  us  on  our  hurried  journey.  We  were 
young ; she  was  old.  The  fatigue,  combined  with  the 
grief,  would  be  more  than  her  frame  could  endure.  I 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  waiting  lonely  in  Seville 
for  the  bad  news  which  she  knew  must  come  in  a day  or 
two  from  England.  Let  us  say  nothing  respecting  the 
wretched  errand  on  which  we  are  bound.  Let  us  depart 
in  secret,  and  leave  some  plausible  explanation  behind  us. 


DARK  DATS. 


147 


To  my  relief,  Philippa  at  last,  consented  to  this.  Then, 
after  a long,  tearful  embrace,  we  steeled  ourselves  to  join 
my  mother  at  the  evening  meal,  and  to  bear  ourselves  so 
that  she  should  suspect  nothing  of  the  tempest  within 
our  hearts.  We  did  not  very  long  subject  ourselves  to 
this  strain  upon  our  nerves.  It  seemed  to  me  now  that 
every  moment  spent  otherwise  than  alone  with  my  wife 
was  a precious  treasure  wasted,  a loss  which  I should  for- 
ever regret.  So  very  early  we  pleaded  fatigue,  and  re- 
tired to  our  rest.  Such  rest  ! 

Philippa  bade  my  mother  good-night  with  an  embrace 
so  long  and  passionate  that  I feared  it  would  awaken 
alarm,  especially  when  it  was  succeeded  by  my  own 
veiled,  but  scarcely  less  emotional,  adieu.  For  who 
could  say  that  we  should  ever  meet  again  ? I do  not 
believe  it  struck  Philippa  that  in  accompanying  her  I 
was  running  the  slightest  risk.  Had  she  thought  so,  she 
would  have  insisted  upon  going  alone.  But  I knew  that 
the  part  I had  played  in  that  night’s  work  would  proba- 
bly bring  a severe  punishment  upon  my  own  head.  What 
did  I care  for  that  ? 

Silently  and  sadly  in  the  retirement  of  our  room  we 
made  our  preparations  for  the  journey,  which  began  with 
the  mom.  There  was  no  need  to  cumber  ourselves  with 
much  luggage.  We  should  rest  in  no  bed  until  the  trial 
was  over.  What  resting-place  might  then  be  Philippa’s, 
Heaven  only  knew!  So  our  packing  was  soon  com- 
pleted. 

Then  I wrote  a letter,  to  be  given  to  or  found  by  my 
mother  in  the  morning.  I told  her  that  an  important 
matter  took  me  post-haste  to  England ; that, Philippa  had 
determined  to  accompany  me ; that  I would  write  as 
soon  as  we  reached  London.  I gave  no  further  explana- 


148 


DARK  DAYS. 


tion.  I hoped  she  would  attribute  my  sudden  flight  to 
the  erratic  nature  which  she  often  averred  I possessed; 

After  all,  the  deception  mattered  little.  In  a week’s 
time  nothing  would  matter.  Grief,  overwhelming  grief, 
would  be  my  portion ; a portion  which,  by  her  affection 
for  me  and  for  Philippa,  my  poor  mother  would  be  forced 
to  share. 

All  being  now  ready  for  our  start,  we  strove  to  win 
some  hours  of  sleep.  Our  efforts  were  mocked  to  scorn. 
Through  that,  the  last  night  we  might  spend  alone  to- 
gether, I believe  neither  my  wife  nor  myself  closed  an 
eyelid.  Let  me  draw  a veil  over  my  wild  distress  and 
Philippa’s  calm  acquiescence  in  her  fate.  Some  grief  is 
too  sacred  to  describe. 

Morning!  Bright,  broad,  clear,  cool,  odorous  morn- 
ing ! Our  sleeplessness  had  at  least  spared  us  the  anguish 
of  awaking,  and,  while  for  a moment  glorying  in  the 
beauty  of  the  world,  to  remember  what  this  morning 
meant  to  us.  Giving  ourselves  ample  time  to  reach  the 
railway-station,  we  crept  from  our  room,  and,  with  eyes 
full  of  blinding  tears,  crossed  the  pleasant  patio.  I 
paused  in  the  centre,  and  plucking  a lovely  spray  from 
the  great  orange-tree,  kissed  it  and  gave  it  to  my  wife. 
Without  a word  she  placed  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
As  she  drew  her  mantle  aside  to  do  so,  for  the  first  time 
I noticed  that  she  wore  the  very  dress  which  clad  her  on 
that  fatal  night.  Although  it  was  utterly  unsuited  to 
the  almost  tropical  heat  through  which  we  should  have 
to  travel,  I dared  not  remonstrate  with  her.  Now,  of  all 
times,  her  slightest  wish  should  be  my  law. 

Noiselessly  I undid  the  massive  studded  wooden  gate, 
which  at  night-time  closed  the  entrance  to  the  patio. 
Unseen,  we  stepped  into  the  shady,  narrow  street.  Our 


DARK  DATS. 


149 


Wage  was  light.  I could  carry  it  with  ease  to  the  sta- 
tion, which  was  not  a great  distance  off.  We  were  there 

only  too  soon.  , , . , , _ 

We  had  to  wait  some  time  ere  the  train,  which,  follow- 
ing the  example  of  the  true  Spaniard,  declines  on  any 
consideration  to  be  hurried,  made  its  appearance  We 
took  our  seats  in  silence.  At  last  the  dignified  train 
condescended  to  move  onward.  We  sat  side  by  side,  and 
gazed  and  gazed  in  the  direction  of  the  beautiful  city 
from  which  we  were  flying ; gazed  until  we  saw  the  very 
last  of  it,  until  even  the  great  towering  Giralda  was  lost 
to  view.  Then,  and  only  then,  I think  we  fully  realized 

to  what  end  we  were  speeding. 

The  next  three  days  and  nights  seem  now  little  more 
to  me  than  a whirling  dream.  On  and  on  we  went  to 
work  out  our  fate;  over  the  same  ground  which  i bad 
traversed,  with  scarcely  less  agitated  feelings  some 
months  ago.  I ground  my  teeth  when  I thought  how 
little  my  strenuous  and  seemingly  successful  effoits  lia 
availed.  Now,  not  from  any  omission  of  precaution; 
not  because  the  law  compelled ; not  by  the  exercise  of 
force;  but  simply  on  account  of  the  great  dictum  of 
rio-ht  and  wrong,  we  were,  of  our  own  accord,  retracing 
our  steps  to  face  the  danger  from  which  we  had  fled. 

Oh,  bitter  irony  of  destiny ! 

What  was  money  to  me  now  ? Nothing  but  so  much 
dross ! It  could  do  one  thing,  only  one,  that  gold  wine  1 
I lavished  so  freely  on  that  journey.  It  could  assure  that 
Philippa  and  I might  travel  alone.  It  could  give  us  pri- 
vacy for  the  time  that  journey  lasted,  that  was  all. 

Yet  although  alone,  we  spoke  but  little.  Our  thoughts 
were  not  such  as  can  be  expressed  by  words.  Her  hand 
in  mine,  her  head  on  my  shoulder— sleeping  when  we 


150 


DABK  DATS. 


could  sleep,  waking  and  looking  into  each  other’s  faces—, 
knowing  that  every  mile  of  sunny  or  starlit  country  over 
-which  we  passed  brought  us  nearer  to  the  end.  Ah!  I 
understood  then  how  it  is  that  lovers  who  are  menaced 
by  some  great  sorrow  can  kill  themselves,  and  die  smil- 
ing  in  each  other’s  arms!  We  might  have  done  so;  but 
our  deaths  would  have  left  to  perish  that  stranger  whom 
we  were  speeding  to  save. 

So,  as  in  a dream,  *the  hours,  the  days,  the  nights,  went 
by.  We  might  have  been  travelling  through  the  fairest 
scenery  in  the  world,  or  through  the  most  arid  desert.  I 
scarcely  troubled  to  glance  out  of  the  carriage  window. 
The  world  for  me  was  inside. 

It  was  after  we  left  Paris — Paris,  which  to-day  seemed 
all  but  within  stone’s-throw  of  London — that  I aroused 
myself,  and  braced  my  energies  to  discuss  finally  with 
Philippa  our  proper  plan  of  action.  I felt  that  my  right 
course  would  be  to  go  straight  to  some  solicitor,  tell  the 
tale,  and  ask  him  to  put  matters  in  train.  But  I could  not 
bring  myself  to  do  this.  Our  secret  was  as  yet  our  own. 
Moreover,  through  the  misery  of  those  hours,  one  ray  of 
hope  had  broken  upon  me.  If  Philippa  could  be  brought 
to  yield  to  my  guidance,  to  follow  my  instructions,  it  was 
not  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  we  might  be 
saved,  and  saved  with  clean  hands. 

“Dearest,”  I whispered,  “to-night  we  shall  be  in  Lon- 
don.” 

Her  fingers  tightened  on  mine.  “ And  at  Tewnham  ?” 
she  said.  '“  We  shall  be  in  time  V* 

“In  ample  time.  But,  Philippa.,  listen- — ” 

“ Basil,  as  you  love  me,  not  one  word  tp  tempt,  to  dis- 
suade me !” 


DARK  DAYS. 


151 


« Not  one ; but  listen.  Sweetest,  if  you  will  be  guided 
by  me,  even  now  all  may  go  well.  This  man — •” 

“ The  poor  man  who  is  standing  in  my  place  ?” 

“ Yes  5 listen.  Heaven  forbid  that  I should  tempt 
you.  Think;  he  is,  no  doubt,  a man  of  a lowly  station 
in  life.  Philippa,  I am  rich,  very  rich.” 

“ I do  not  understand  you,”  she  said,  pressing  her  hand 

to  her  brow. 

“Money  will  compensate  for  anything.  Let  him 
stand  his  trial.  He  is  innocent.  If  there  is  justice  in 
the  land,  he  may,  he  must  be  found  not  guilty.” 

“ But  the  agony  of  mind  he  must  pass  through !” 

“ For  that  I will  pay  him  over  and  over  again.  He 
may  be  but  a country  boor,  to  whom  a thousand  pounds 
would  be  inexhaustible  wealth.  But,  whatever  his  station, 
the  compensation  sent  to  him  by  an  unknown  hand  shall 
make  him  bless  the  day  which  laid  him  under  the  false 
accusation.  Reflect,  look  at  the  matter  in  every  light.  I 
swear  to  yon  that  in  my  opinion  we  may,  with  a clear 
conscience,  await  the  result  of  the  trial.” 

She  sighed,  but  made  no  answer.  Her  silence  was  a 
joy  to  me.  It  told  me  that  my  specious  argument  car- 
ried weight.  I took  her  hands  and  kissed  them.  I told 
her  again  and  again  that  I loved  her ; that  my  life  as  well 
as  hers  depended  on  her  yielding. 

It  was  long  before  she  yielded.  The  thought  of  a 
fellow-creature  lying  in  prison,  perhaps  for  months,  and 
to-morrow  to  stand  in  shame  before  his  judges,  on  ac- 
count of  a deed  which  she  herself  had  done,  was  anguish 
to  lier  noble  nature.  Then,  growing  desperate  at  seeing 
the  only  plank  which  could  save  us  from  the  wreck 
spurned  for  the  sake  of  what,  in  my  present  mood,  I was 
able  to  believe  too  finely  strained  a scruple,  I used  my 


152 


DARK  DAYS. 


last  and,  as  I rightly  judged,  my  most  powerful  argm 
ment.  I told  lier  that  it  would  be  not  only  she  who 
would  suffer  for  that  unconscious  act,  but  that  I,  her 
husband,  must  pay  the  penalty  due  from  an  accessory 
after  the  crime. 

Heaven  forgive  me  for  the  anguish  my  words  caused 
that  loving  heart!  Philippa,  on  whom  the  intelligence 
of  my  danger  fell  like  a thunderbolt,  sank  back  in  her 
seat,  pale  and  trembling.  Had  I ever  doubted  that  my 
wife’s  heart-whole  love  was  my  own,  that  look  would 
have  dispelled  the  doubt. 

She  prayed  and  besought  me  to  leave  her  at  the  next 
station ; to  let  her  finish  the  journey  and  make  her 
avowal  alone.  My  reply  was  short,  but  sufficiently  long 
to  put  all  hope  of  my  consenting  to  such  a course  out  of 
her  head.  Then,  for  my  sake,  she  yielded. 

“On  one  condition— one  only,”  she  said. 

“ Be  guided  by  me  in  this.  In  all  else  you  shall  do  as 
you  like.” 

“I  must  be  in  the  court,  Basil.  I must  hear  the  trial. 
If  the  worst  happen,  there  must  not  be  the  delay  of  a 
moment  ; then  and  there  I must  proclaim  the  truth.” 

“You  shall  be  at  hand — close  at  hand.  I will  be  pres- 
ent.” 


“No!  I must  be  there.  I must  hear  and  see  all.  If 
the  man  is  found  guilty,  I must,  before  his  horrible  sen- 
tence is  pronounced,  stand  up  and  declare  his  innocence.” 
“All  that  could  be  done  afterward.” 

“No  ; it  must  be  done  then.  Basil,  fancy — put  your- 
self in  his  place  ! Nothing  could  atone  for  liis  anguish 
at  hearing  himself  condemned  to  death  for  a crime  he 
knows  nothing  of.  I must  be  there.  Promise  me  I 
shall  be  there,  and  for  your  sake  I will  do  as  you  wish.” 


- 


DARK  DAYS. 


153 

It  was  the  best  concession  I could  get.  I promised. 
I concealed  the  fact  that  if,  when  sentence  was  pro- 
nounced, a woman  rose  in  the  body  of  the  comt  an 
asserted  the  prisoner’s  innocence  and  her  own  guilt,  the 
probabilities  were  she  would  be  summarily  ejected.  T 
made  no  difference.  Let  Philippa  be  silent;  let  the 
man  be  found  not  guilty,  and  the  next  tram  could  bear 

us  back  to  Seville. 

Yes,  even  now  there  was  hope  1 


154 


DARK  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  .XIV. 
the  criminal  court# 

Ty^E  reached  Charing  Cross  at  fonr  o’clock  on  the  mom. 

ing  of  September  20tli.  The  first  train  by  which 
we  could  get  to  Tewnham  was  timed  to  leave  Liverpool 
Street  at  seven,  so  that  we  had  an  hour  or  two  to  spare 
tor  such  refreshment  as  we  cared  to  take,  such  rest  as  we 
dared  to  allow  ourselves.  What  with  the  fatigue  of  con- 
tinuous travel,  and  the  dread  of  what  this  day  was  to 
bring  forth,  it  may  be  easily  believed  that  we  were  thor- 
oughly worn  out.  We  were,  indeed,  more  fitted  to  go 
to  bed  and  sleep  for  a week,  than  to  proceed  upon  the 
last  stage  of  our  dismal  journey. 

But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  If  we  meant  to  be  in 
time,  we  must  go  on  by  the  early  morning  train.  I 
begged  my  wife  to  lie  down,  and  endeavor  to  snatch  an 
lour  s sleep  She  refused  firmly.  Much  of  that  calm 
which  had  characterized  her  since  the  moment  when  I 
broke  the  fatal  news  to  her  had  vanished.  Its  place  was 
now  taken  by  an  excitement,  suppressed,  but  nevertheless 
clearly  manifest  to  my  eyes.  The  fear  that  we  should 
iot  i each  Tewnham  in  time  for  the  trial  seemed  to  haunt 
her  unceasingly.  It  was  for  this  reason  she  so  peremp- 
tonly  refused  to  he  down  and  court  sleep.  She  feared 
est,  our  eyes  once  closed,  we  should,  from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion, sleep  for  hours,  and  so  miss  the  morning  train.  She 
was  ever  picturing  the  horror  of  that  poor  unknown 


DARK  DATS. 


155 


man’s  being  led  from  the  dock,  with  the  death  sentence 
ringing  in  his  ears. 

So  the  time  which  elapsed  before  we  started  for  Tewn- 
ham  we  spent  in  the  hotel.  I bespoke  rooms  by  telegram, 
sent  when  we  reached  Folkestone.  We  made  an  apology 
for  a meal;  in  fact,  what  we  could  get  at  that  time  of 
night  was  of  itself  little  more  than  apology.  We  sat  all 
but  silent,  watching  the  hands  of  the  clock,  which  told  us 
how  fast  the  precious  moments  were  passing  away.  We 
saw  the  gray  morning  struggle  with,  and  at  last  conquer, 
the  yellow  gas-light.  We  heard  the  hum  of  traffic  grow- 
ing louder  and  louder  in  the  streets  below  us.  Then  we 
turned  to  make  what  may  be  rightly  called  our  last  adieus. 
Who  could  say  that  to-day  .my  wife  and  I might  not  be 
parted  forever  \ 

While  at  the  hotel  I tried  to  obtain  the  file  of  the 
Times.  I wanted  to  look  back  and  see  if  I could  find 
the  account  of  magisterial  proceedings  against  this  un- 
lucky William  Evans.  He  must,  of  course,  have  appeared 
before  the  lesser  tribunal,  and  could  I see  the  account 
of  his  appearance,  I should  be  able  to  judge  as  to  the 
strength  of  the  case  against  him.  Bnt  the  file  was  not 
forthcoming.  Perhaps  it  did  not  exist;  perhaps  the 
sleepy-eyed  Teutonic  waiter  did  not  understand  what  I 
wanted  ; so,  still  in  the  dark  as  to  why  suspicion  should 
have  fallen  upon  this  innocent  man,  we  left  the  hotel  and 
drove  to  Liverpool  Street  Station. 

At  nine  o’clock  our  journey  was  ended.  We  stood  on 
tl*e  platform  of  Tewnhani  railway-station.  My  poor  wife 
wore  a thick  black  veil,  so  her  face  I could  not  see ; bnt 
I knew  it  was  as  pale  as  death.  Now  and  again  her  hand, 
which  rested  on  my  arm,  pressed  it  convulsively.  I think 
we  were  the  most  unhappy  pair  on  the  earth ! 


166 


DARK  DATS. 


We  Were  even  denied  the  time  for  any  more  farewells 
or  expressed  regrets.  The  hour  was  chiming  from  the 
old  cathedral  tower.  The  business  of  the  Courts,  I knew, 
always  began  at  ten  o’clock,  and  considering  the  crowd 
which  would  most  surely  be  attracted  by  so  interesting  a 
case  as  this  trial  for  murder  committed  so  many  months 
'*g°>  I felt  Bure  t,iat  unless  we  proceeded  at  once  to  the 
Slnrehall,  our  chance  of  gaining  entrance  would  be  but  a 
small  one.  I hailed  one  of  the  close  cabs  which  were 
waiting  outside  the  station. 

As  I did  so  1 felt  a heavy  hand  laid  upon  my  shoulder, 
and  heard  a rich,  pleasant-sounding,  and  not  unfamiliar 
voice  exclaim,  “Bftsil  North,  as  I’m  a sinner!” 

That  any  oiie  should  at  this  moment  address  Basil 
N 01  tli  in  a merry  way  seemed  a positive  incongruity.  I 
turned  round  almost  angrily,  and  found  myself  face  to 
face  with  an  old  friend.  He  was  a barrister  named  Grant  • 
a man  four  or  five  years  my  senior,  but  one  with  whom, 
before  I forswore  the  society  of  my  fellow-men,  I had 
been  on  intimate  terms.  I had  not  seen  him  for  a con- 
siderable time;  but  had  heard,  casually,  that  he  was 
making  great  strides  in  liis  forensic  career. 

In  spite  of  my  distress,  I returned  his  greeting,  and 
grasped  his  hand  warmly.  After  all  it  seemed  a relief  to 
find  that  I had  a firiend  left  in  the  world. 

“ Wliat  brings  you  here  ?”  I asked. 

“ The  only  tliirig  that  could  bring  me  to  such  a place 
—circuit  work.  I have  an  important  case  on  to-day. 
JLJiats  the  worst  of  a place  so  near  London  as  this  one. 
One  is  tempted  to  spend  the  nights  in  town,  which 
means  getting  up  at  an  unholy  hour  in  the  morning. 

U-»r^jU  ’ W,7  *re  you  ^Iei  e • I heard  you  were  as  rich 
as  Midas,  and  living  abroad  in  luxury.” 


DARK  DATS. 


157 


| 


« I have  been  abroad  for  some  time.  I hope  to  go 
back  again  very  soon.” 

« Happy  mail l”  lie  ejaculated.  I could  scarcely  keep 
the  bitter  smile  from  my  lips,  as  I thought  how  ill  ap- 
plied were  his  words. 

As  he  spoke  he  glanced  at  Philippa,  whose  grace  and 
beauty  of  form  defied  the  concealment  attempted  by 
thick  veil  and  sombre  garments. 

“ But  what  brings  you  to  this  sleepy  old  town  ?”  con- 
tinued Grant. 

I hesitated  for  a moment.  Then,  thinking  that  truth, 
or  at  least  half  truth,  was  the  best,  told  him  I had  come 
down  to  witness  the  trial  for  murder. 

“I  should  doubt  your  getting  into  court,”  he  said. 
« The  morbid  interest  excited  around  about  here  is,  I am 
told,  very  great.  The  sheriff  is  besieged  by  applications 
for  tickets.” 

“ Couldn’t  you  help  me  ? The  fact  is,  I have  a partic- 
ular reason,  not  mere  curiosity,  for  wishing  to  be  present 
at  this  trial.” 

« I don’t  think  I can,”  said  Grant.  “ Does  your— the 
lady  wish  to  go  with  you  ?” 

“ My  cousin — yes,”  I said,  seeing  that  he  expected  an 
introduction.  He  raised  his  hat,  and  made  some  courte- 
. ous  and  pleasant  remark,  to  which  Philippa,  to  my  sur- 
prise, replied  in  a calm  and  fitting  way. 

Grant  knew  I had  no  sister.  I called  her  cousin 
because  I had  a wild  hope  that,  if  the  worst  happened,  I 
might  be  able  to  conceal  the  true  relationship  in  which 
we  stood,  and  so  be  permitted  to  give  evidence  on  her 
behalf.  I trusted  my  wife  would  guess  that  I had  a good 
xeasou  for  tills  deception. 


158 


DARE  DAYS. 


“ Try  and  manage  this  for  me,  Grant,”  I said  so  eaR 
nestly  that  my  friend  made  no  further  demur. 

“ Take  me  in  your  cab,  and  I will  see  what  I can  do  ” 

During  our  drive  to  the  Shirehall  I asked  Grant  what 
he  knew  about  the  impending  trial. 

“ Nothing,”  he  said  frankly.  “ I hate  murder  cases- 
hate  even  to  read  about  them.  Of  course  I know  that  Sir 
Mervyn  Ferrand  was  killed,  and  hidden  in  the  snow  for 
days  and  days.  But  I know  no  more.” 

u Who  is  the  accused  ?” 

“ I don’t  know.  I thought,  from  your  anxiety,  you 
must  know  him.”  J J 

“ Will  lie  be  found  guilty  ?” 

I don’t  know.  Stay,  I heard  some  one  who  ought  to 
be  well  informed  say  yesterday  that  the  case  for  the 
prosecution  was  most  feeble.  He  seemed  to  doubt  if  the 
grand  jury  would  return  a true  bill.” 

As  I heard  this  I pressed  Philippa’s  hand  secretly.  I 
felt  that  she  was  trembling. 

The  drive  to  the  Shirehall  occupied  only  a few  min- 
utes. We  did  not  go  to  the  public  entrance,  in  front  of 
which  I could  see  a crowd  of  people  nearly  blocking  up 
the  street.  We  stopped  at  another  door,  and  Grant,  Tftcr 
looking  round,  caught  sight  of  wliat  appeared  to  be  an 
inspector  of  police.  He  entered  into  a little  conversation 
with  him,  the  result  of  which  was  that  we  were  given 
into  his  care. 

This  is  a breach  of  the  law,”  whispered  my  friend  as 
lie  bade  me  good-by.  “ You  will  have  to  atone  for  it  by 
a handsome  gratuity.” 

We  followed  our  guide.  Philippa,  although  walking 
with  a firm  step,  leaned  heavily  upon  my  arm.  I 
scarcely  know  by  what  door  we  entered  that  palace  of 


DARK  DATS. 


160 


justice.  The  stalwart  policeman  led  us  through  stone 
corridors  and  passages,  which  re-echoed  with  the  tread 
of  our  feet,  and  at  last  we  found  ourselves  before  a double 
swinging  plain  oak  door,  over  which  in  old  English 
letters  was  written  “ Criminal  Court.” 

I felt  Philippa  shudder,  and  knew  that  the  sight  of 
those  words  brought  the  horror  of  the  situation  fully 
home  to  her.  Mechanically  I pressed  a sovereign  in  the 
hand  of  the  venial  inspector,  or  whatever  he  was;  then, 
holding  my  wife’s  hand,  I - passed  through  ,tlie  noiseless 
swinging  door  into  the  all  but  empty  court. 

A few  policemen  and  other  officials  were  lounging 
about.  Two  or  three  people,  who  had  no  doubt  gained 
admittance  in  the  same  way  as  we  had  done,  were  seated 
in  various  coigns  of  vantage.  I led  Philippa  up  the 
broad  steps,  and  pointed  to  one  of  the  hard  wooden 
benches  provided  for  the  accommodation  of  the  general 
public.  These  benches  were  raised  step  by  step,  one 
above  another.  We  chose  our  position  about  half-way 
up,  on  the  right-band  side  of  the  court.  Philippa,  with 
her  thick  veil  falling  down  to  her  chin,  and  so  defying 
recognition,  sank  w'earily  into  her  seat.  I placed  myself 
beside  her ; my  hand  crept  under  the  cloak  she  wore  and 
held  her  hand. 

Surely  it  was  all  a dream — a dreadful,  realistic  dream ! 
I should  wake  and  find  myself  under  the  great  orange 
tree  in  that  courtyard  in  gay  Seville,  my  half-smoked 
cigar  and  the  book  which  I had  been  lazily  reading  lying 
at  my  feet ; my  mother  opposite  me,  laughing  at  my 
somnolency,  and  Philippa’s  grave  dark  eyes  looking  with 
calm  everlasting  love  into  my  own.  X should  wake  and 
find  the  cool  of  the  evening  had  succeeded  to  the  glare 
of  the  afternoon.  We  should  walk  through  the  merry 


160  DARK  DAYS- 

streets,  lounge  in  the  Alameda,  winder  through  the  glow- 
ing Alcazar  gardens,  or  drive  out  miles  and  miles  over 
the  fertile  smiling  plains.  Or  I should  even  wake  and 
find  myself  nodding  over  my  fire  in  my  lonely  cottage, 
the  stolid  William  the  only  human  creature  within  hail; 
Philippa’s  return,  the  snow-storm,  the  dreadful  discovery, 
the  flight,  Seville,  the  marriage— all,  all  a dream  ! 

In  a kind  of  stupor — the  temporary  reaction,  I suppose, 
consequent  upon  such  fatigue  and  trouble — I gazed 
round  me,  and  wondered  where  I was. 

What  is  this  great  empty  building,  lit  from  one  side 
by  large  clerestory  windows  of  ecclesiastical  design? 
What  are  these  dull  gray  vacant  walls ; that  lofty  ceiling 
crossed  and  cut  into  small  squares  by  dark  rafters ; this 
leaded  floor,  on  which  feet  fall  all  but  noiselessly  ? What 
are  those  raised  boxes  on  either  side  of  the  building — 
those  small  railed  platforms  all  but  adjoining  them,  and 
all  but  adjoining  that  panelled  oak  structure  at  the  end 
facing  me  ? What  is  that  rectangular  box-shaped  erection 
with  overhanging  carved  cornice  ? Let  us  away  from 
this  dismal,  colorless  place ! Let  me  wake  and  find  my- 
self amid  the  flowers,  orange  trees,  the  fair  sights  and 
surroundings  of  our  Spanish  home. 

No ! I have  but  to  turn  my  dazed  eyes  to  the  centre  of 
space  in  which  we  sat,  to  know  that  I am  dreaming  no 
dream ; that  we  must  wait  here  and  learn  our  fates.  That 
oblong  wooden  enclosure  with  high  sides,  topped  by  a 
light  iron  railing,  brings  reality  back  to  me.  It  is  the 
prisoner’s  dock.  In  an  hour’s  time  a man  will  stand  there. 
He  will  be  brought  up  those  stone  steps  which  lead  to  it 
from  below,  the  topmost  flag  of  which  I can  just  see. 
He  will  stand  there  for  hours.  As  he  leaves  the  dock. 


DARK  DATS. 


161 


declared  innocent  or  guilty,  so  will  our  lives  be  declared 
happy  or  miserable. 

My  hand  holds  tny  wife’s  yet  closer;  for  the  last  min- 
utes  which  may  be  ours  to  spend  together  are  slipping  by 

so  fast,  so  very  fast ! t * 

See,  the  clock  under  the  balcony  marks  half-past  nine, 
The  all  but  deserted  court  begins  to  assume  the  appear- 
ance of  preparing  for  business.  Policemen  and  other 
officials  pass  to  and  fro,  some  arranging  papers,  some  re- 
plenishing ink-bottles,  add  placing  quill  pens  ready  for 
the  barristers  and  solicitors  who  will  soon  fill  those  front 
seats.  Some  one,  with  what  seems  to  me  bittei  iiony, 
places  a magnificent  bouquet  of  flowers  on  either  hand 
of  the  judge’s  vacant  chair.  What  have  flowers  in  com- 
mon with  such  a scene  as  this  ? Flowers,  too,  which  are 
beautiful  enough  to  recall  to  my  mind  the  fair  Spanish 
home,  which,  maybe,  we  shall  see  no  more.  Flowers  in 
this  den  of  sorrow!  Bather  should  every  seat,  every 
beam  be  draped  in  black. 

Now  the  doors  on  each  side  of  the  court  open,  and 
remain  open.  I hear  a shuffling  of  many  feet.  People, 
in  a continuous  stream,  pass  through  the  entrance,  and 
wend  their  way  to  the  portion  of  the  court  allotted  to 
the  general  public.  So  fast,  so  thick  they  come,  that  in 
ten  minutes  this  space  is  thronged  almost  to  suffocation. 
Philippa  and  I are  pressed  closer  and  closer  to  each  other, 
as  every  inch  of  the  bench  on  which  we  are  seated  is  ap- 
propriated. The  court  is  full. 
f Crowded  by  respectable-looking,  well-dressed  people, 
who  have  gained  admission,  as  I heard,  by  favor  of  the 
sheriff.  Yet,  respectable  as  they  are,  each  man,  each 
woman,  rushes  in  eagerly  and  strives  for  the  best  avail- 
able seat.  And  for  what  reason?  To  see  and  hear  a 


162 


daee  days. 


poor  wretch  tried  for  liis  life ! In  my  bitter  mood  I 
look  with  hate  on  these  sensation-seekers.  I hate  them 
even  more  when  I think  that  their  morbid  craving  for 
excitement  may  be  satisfied  with  such  food  as  they  little 
expect ; and  I clinch  my  teeth  as  I picture  the  scene  at 
that  moment  when  Philippa,  in  pursuance  of  her  immov- 
able resolution,  rises,  and  makes  her  effort  to  proclaim 
her  own  guilt  and  the  convicted  man’s  innocence.  Al- 
though I strive  to  force  the  picture  from  my  mind,  by 
telling  myself  that  justice  cannot  err,  that  the  man  will 
be  acquitted,  yet  again  and  again  the  dread  of  the  worst 
seizes  me,  and  I hate  every  face  in  that  crowd,  which 
may,  by  and  by,  be  gaping,  with  looks  of  wonder  and 
curiosity,  at  the  woman  I love  ! 

As  in  a haze,  I see  some  faces  which  are  familiar  to  me. 
A number  of  gentlemen  enter,  and  seat  themselves  on 
the  benches  which  counsel  usually  occupy.  Some  few  of 
these  I knew  by  sight.  They  are  country  gentlemen 
from  the  neighborhood  of  Boding,  who  are  now  called  to 
serve  on  the  grand  jury.  I see  also  the  thin-faced,  hawk- 
ish-looking woman  who  calls  herself  Mrs.  Wilson.  I am 
thankful  that  she  takes  a seat  in  front  of  us  and  does 
not  see  us.  She,  like  ourselves,  must  know  that  an  inno- 
cent man  is  this  day  about  to  be  tried.  • 

So  for  half  an  hour  I sit,  gazing  now  at  the  crowd  of 
people,  now  at  the  empty  dock  and  vacant  bench  in  front 
of  me;  listening  to  the  hum  of  conversation  which  rises 
from  the  packed  court;  longingfor  the  moment  to  come 
when  this  dreadful  suspense  may  end ; yet  all  the  same 
dreading  and  willing  to  put  off  that  moment.  And  all 
the  while  Philippa,  in  her  black  garb,  close  to  me  and, 
unseen  by  our  neighbors,  holding  my  hand. 

IIusli ! The  door  a.t  the  back  of  the  bench  opens, 


DARK  DATS. 


1G3 


and  at  ten  o’clock  to  the  minute  the  red-robed  judge 
appears.  He  bows  to  the  court,  seats  himself,  and  by  his 
action  signifies  that  he  is  ready  to  begin  the  business  of 
the  day.  No  trembling  prisoner  in  the  dock  ever  scanned 
a judge’s  face  with  more  anxiety  than  I scan  his  lordship’s 
at  this  present  moment. 

An  old  man,  too  old,  it  seems  to  me,  for  such  a respon- 
sible post ; an  amiable,  pleasant-looking  man — not,  I ven- 
ture to  think,  one  who  can  bear  the  reputation  of  being  a 
u hanging  judge.”  I breathe  a prayer  that  he  may  this 
day  be  able  to  direct  aright  the  course  of  justice. 

Hush!  Hush!  Silence  in  the  court!  Oh,  my  poor, 
sweet  wife,  let  Sue  grasp  that  hand  yet  closer,  for  the 
moment  which  for  days  and  nights  has  never  been  absent 
from  our  minds  has  come ! What  will  it  bring  us  \ 


164 


DABK  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  BLACK  CAP. 

THERE  is  silence,  or  all  but  silence,  in  the  court 
The  buzz  of  suppressed  conversation  sinks  almost 
to  nothing— absolutely  to  nothing  as  the  judge’s  marshal 
rises,  and  after  gabbling  through  the  mysterious  procla- 
mation which  begins  “ Oyez ! Oyez ! Oyez !”  declares  the 

court  open.  _ 

Philippa,  still  closely  veiled,  sits  like  a statue.  Her 

hand,  which  ever  grasps  mine,  scarcely  responds  to  the 
pressure  by  which  again  and  again  I endeavor  to  bid  her 
hope  for  the  best.  I would  give  much  if  even  now  I 
could  get  her  to  consent  to  my  leading  her  away.  I dare 
not  surest  this.  I know  that  doing  so  would  be  waste 

of  words. 

The  court  is  open.  The  red  judge  is  perusing  letters 
and  papers  which  lie  in  front  of  him  as  calmly  and  un- 
concernedly as  if  the  life’s  happiness  of,  at  least,  one  man 
and  woman,  did  sot  greatly  depend  upon  the  view  lie 
takes  of  the  case  about  to  be  tried.  He  raises  one  of  his 
bouquets  and  inhales  the  perfume  of  the  flowers.  How 
can  one  in  his  position  behave  like  an  ordinary  mortal  2 
Were  we  not  here,  he  might  condemn  an  innocent  man 
to  a shameful  death ! I wonder  if,  with  such  horrible  re- 
sponsibility resting  on  him,  a judge  can  ever  really  be  a 
happy  man  ? 


165 


DARK  DATS. 

These  thoughts  seem  trivial ; but  my  mind  is  by  now 
in  a strange  state;  it  is,  indeed,  so  sensitive  that  every 
slight  incident,  every  small  ceremonial,  of  to-day  seems  to 
be  impressed  forever  upon  it. 

A bewigged  gentleman — the  clerk  of  assize,  the  man 
next  me  tells  his  neighbor — rises  and  calls  name  after 
name,  until  he  has  fixed  upon  the  twenty-three  gentlemen 
needed  to  form  the  grand  jury.  They  stand  up  in  their 
places,  and,  in  batches  of  four,  are  rapidly  sworn.  The 
absurd  proclamation  against  vice  and  immorality  is  read ; 
much  good  may  it  do  every  one  present ! Then  the  clerk 
sits  down,  and  the  judge,  forsaking  his  papers,  begins  his 
work. 

He  arranges  his  robes  to  his  satisfaction,  leans  forward, 
and,  placing  the  tips  of  his  long  white  fingers  together, 
addresses — charges,  I am  told,  is  the  right  term — the 
grand  jury  in  a pleasant,  colloquial  manner.  I strain 
every  aural  nerve  to  catch  the  purport  of  his  glib  words. 
He  is  sure  to  say  something  about  this  important  murder 
case.  I shall,  perhaps,  be  able  to  learn  how  it  was  that 
the  man  fell  under  suspicion. 

Alas!  the  judge  is  one  who  by  dint  of  years  of  practice 
has  acquired  the  knack  of  using  his  voice  only  just  so 
much  as  is  absolutely  necessary.  The  grand  jury  is  close 
to  him,  and  can,  no  doubt,  hear  him ; but  to  those  who,  like 
ourselves,  are  far  away  in  the  background  of  the  court, 
his  remarks  are  inaudible.  All  I can  catch  is  a closing 
caution  to  the  grand  jury,  to  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  not 
within  its  province  to  determine  the  innocence  or  guilt 
of  the  prisoners,  but  to  simply  decide  whether  there  is 
or  is  not  sufficient  evidence  for  the  cases  to  go  to  trial. 

The  grand  jury  files  out  of  court  to  conduct  its  solemn 
deliberations  in  the  place  appointed.  The  judge  ad- 


166 


T>AJtK  DAYS. 


dresses  a few  smiling  words  to  tlie  sheriff  and  other 
magnates  who,  bv  right  or  favor,  occupy  seats  on  the 
bench ; then  he  returns  to  the  perusal  of  his  papers. 

For  the  first  time  since  we  entered  the  court  Philippa 

speaks  to  me.  “ Are  they  trying  him  now?”  she  asks  in 

a low  awed  whisper,  yet  in  a voice  so  changed  that  I know 

what  the  suspense  is  costing  her.  Briefly  I explain  the 

procedure  of  the  law,  so  far  as  I know  it.  She  sighs,  and 

savs  no  more. 

•/ 

More  monotonous  calling  of  many  names,  to  which 
summons,  however,  another  class  of  men  respond.  The 
common  jurymen  are  now  being  called.  Probably,  to 
save  time,  twelve  men  are  sent  into  the  box,  where  they 
sit,  some  appearing  to  enjoy  the  dignity  of  the  position, 
some  with  stolid  indifference,  others  with  acute  unhappi- 
ness plainly  manifested.  I look  at  these  men  with  scarcely 
less  interest  than  I look  at  the  judge.  On  them,  or  on 
6ome  of  them,  our  fate  rests  as  much,  perhaps  more,  than 
it  rests  on  him.  Those  men  are  trying  ns — not  only  the 
man  who  will  by  and  by  stand  in  that  rail-topped  enclosure 
into  which  we  look  down. 

Twenty  long  weary  minutes  pass  by.  All  eyes  turn 
to  a wooden  gallery  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  court. 
A door  in  the  wall  opens.  The  members  of  the  grand 
jury  emerge  and  fill  the  gallery.  The  foreman  arms  him- 
self with  a gigantic  fishing-rod,  to  which  he  attaches  a 
paper,  which  is  conveyed  by  this  clumsy  method  to  that 
busy  gentleman,  the  clerk  of  assize.  What  idiotic  foolery 
all  this  seems  to  me  ! 

The  clerk  detaches  the  document,  glances  at  it,  and 
looks  up  at  the  gallery. 

“ Gentlemen  of  the  grand  jury,  you  return  a true  bill 
against  William  Evans  for  murder?” 


DARK  DATS. 


167 


« We  do,”  answers  tlie  foreman  with  shy  solemnity. 

I grind  my  teeth.  Fools  1 If  men  of  culture  and  stand- , 
ing  err  like  this,  what  can  be  expected  from  a common 
jury  ? It  is  well  for  me  that  I heard  the  caution  just 
now  given  by  the  judge.  I take  such  comfort  as  I can 
by  thinking  they  have  tried  the  evidence,  not  the  man. 
What  can, the  evidence  be  ? Ah ! we  shall  soon  know. 

The  clerk  turns,  and,  addressing  no  one  in  particular, 
says,  “ Bring  up  the  prisoner.”  Once  more  I set  my 
teeth.  I feel  my  wife’s  arm  tremble ; her  hand  grows 
cold.  I hear  a buzz,  as  of  expectation,  run  through  the 
crowded  court.  Every  eye  turns  in  one  direction — toward 
the  empty  dock.  For  a moment  a species  of  dizziness 
comes  over  me ; objects  swim  before  my  eyes.  The  sen- 
sation passes  away.  I recover  myself.  The  dock  is  no 
longer  un  ten  anted.  In  the  centre,  with  a stalwart  police- 
man on  either  side  of  him,  stands  the  accused — the  man 
who,  if  needs  be,  must  be  saved  by  such  a sacrifice ! 

From  my  place,  far  back  in  the  public  gallery,  I can, 
of  course,  see  nothing  more  of  the  prisoner  than  his  back. 
I gaze  at  this  with  intense  curiosity,  endeavoring  to  de- 
termine the  station  of  the  man  who  is  now  about  to  be 
tried  for  his  life.  I can  but  gather  this  much : He  is  tall 
and  slight.  II is  dress  is  of  a semi-respectable  nature,  but 
seems  to  have  seen  much  service.  He  might  be  anything 
from  a broken-down  clerk  to  .a  gentleman’s  servant  out 
at  elbows.  I rejoice  at  his  poverty-stricken  appearance. 
Judging  from  it,  money  will  be  welcome  to  him.  Let 
the  jury  but  assert  his  innocence,  and  I feel  certain  that 
the  liberal  pecuniary  compensation  which  it  is  my  inten- 
tion to  mete  out  will  repay  him  a hundred  times  for  the 
ordeal  which  he  is  undergoing. 

Ordeal!  Yes,  it  is  the  right  word.  It  is  easy  to  see 


168 


DARK  DAYS. 


it  is  a terrible  ordeal  to  the  poor  fellow.  No  need  t« 
look  at  his  face  to  be  told  that  much.  Even  as  lie 
emerged  from  the  cells  below  he  seemed  to  quake  with 
fear.  Now  he,  absolutely  falls  forward  in  the  dock,  sup- 
porting himself  by  grasping  the  iron  railing  which  runs 
round  the  top.  I notice  that  his  fingers,  as  they  cling  to 
the  iron  bars,  open  and  close  convulsively.  Every  move- 
ment of  liis  back  and  shoulders  betrays  fear  and  anguish 
of  mind.  His  state  is  pitiable,  so  pitiable  that  one  of  his 
custodians  places  his  hand  under  the  wretched  man’s  arm, 
and  gives  him  the  physical  support  which  he  so  sorely 
needs.  lie  bends  his  head  as  in  shame,  and  I know  that 
could  I see  liis  face,  it  would  be  white  as  my  own  or  my 
wife’s. 

In  spite  of  the  strain  upon  my  mind,  I was  able  to 
wonder  at  the  prisoner’s  hopeless  demeanor.  Although 
I had,  as  it  were,  torn  my  very  heart  out  by  the  roots  to 
insure  this  man’s  safety  in  the  event  of  things  going 
wrong  with  him  ; although  I did  not  even  now  regret  the 
course  I had  taken,  I am  bound  to  say  that  liis  cowardly 
behavior  took  away  much  of  the  sympathy  which  I should 
otherwise  have  felt  for  him  in  his  unmerited  predicament. 
It  is,  of  course,  very  easy  to  say  what  one  Avould  do  if  in 
another’s  place.  I certainly  felt  sure  that,  were  I in 
that  poor  fellow’s  plight,  consciousness  of  my  own  inno- 
cence would  give  me  strength  enough  to  raise  my  head, 
and  face  boldly  all  the  judges,  juries,  and  prosecuting 
counsel  in  the  world.  I was  willing  to  make  every 
allowance  for  the  nervousness  natural  to  such  a position; 
but  I groaned  inwardly  as  I gazed  upon  that  miserable, 
limp,  half-standing,  half-reclining  form. 

Why  does  he  not  stand  upright  ? Too  well  I know 
that  another  is  watching  that  abject  wretch  with  interest 


DARK  DATS. 


169 


even  more  intense  than  mine.  I know  that  eypry  attitude 
of  shame  or  fear  is  understood  by  Philippa,  and  adds  to 
the  scruples  which  she  feels  at  following  my  advice  and 
awaiting  the  result  of  the  trial.  Every  agonized  move- 
ment of  the  prisoner  in  the  dock  seems  to  be  faintly  re- 
produced by  the  hand  within  my  own.  Every  pang  he 
suffers  runs  through  the  frame  of  the  woman  who  knows 
that  he  is  suffering  for  her  deed. 

The  clerk  reads  over  the  indictment:  “ That  he,  Wil- 
liam Evans,  did  feloniously,  wilfully,  and  of  malice 
aforethought  kill  and  murder  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand, 
Baronet.”  As  the  reading  proceeds  Philippa  draws  me 
toward  her.  “Basil,”  she  says  in  a low  whisper,  “ this  is 
more  dreadful  than  I dreamed  of.  I cannot  bear  it 
longer.  Think  of  that  poor  man’s  anguish!  Basil,  he 
also  may  have  a wife  who  loves  him ; she  may  be  in  the 
court.  Think  of  her ! Oh ! what  cap  I do  1 What  can 
Ido?” 

“Nothing — nothing  but  wait  and  hope,”  I answer. 

“ Could  you  not  go  down  and  speak  to  him,  or  send  a 
message  in  some  way  ? Tell  him  not  to  be  so  wretched;; 
that  even  at  the  last  moment  he  will  be  saved ; that  the 
real  murderer  will  confess  and  free  him.  Basil,  you 
must  do  this.”  ' 

“ I can  not.  I dare  not.  It  would  ruin  us.  Hush, 
dearest ; be  calm,  and  listen.” 

The  reading  of  the  indictment  is  now  over.  The  clerk 
turns  to  the  prisoner.  “ Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?” 
he  asks  in  a clear  voice.  Although  every  one  in  that 
court  knows  what  the  answer  will  be,  there  is  a silence 
so  profound  that  a pin  might  be  heard  drop.  Every  one 
seemed  desirous  *f  hearing  the  prisoner’s  voice.  Even  I, 


170 


DARK  DATS. 


myself,  lean  forward,  and  strain  every  nerve  to  hear  his 
plea. 

There  is  a long,  dread  pause.  It  may  be  that  the 
prisoner  does  not  understand  that  he  is  expected  to  reply. 
It  may  be  that  his  collapsed  state  deprives  him  of  the 
power  of  speech.  I notice  that  one  of  the  policemen 
touches  him  on  the  shoulder  and  whispers  to  him.  Still 
for  a moment  there  is  silence. 

It  is  broken,  but  not  by  the  prisoner.  Philippa  gives 
a low,  soft  wail,  heard  only,  I think,  by  me. 

« I can  bear  it  no  longer,”  she  whispers.  She  snatches 
her  hand  from  mine.  She  throws  back  her  thick,  dark 
veil,  and  stands  erect  in  the  body  of  the  court.  I cast 
one  glance  at  her  pale  but  determined-looking  face,  then 
bow  my  head  upon  my  hands,  and  wish  that  death  might 
at  that  moment  smite  us  both.  All  is  over  1 I am  con- 
quered ! 

Even  as  I hide  my  face  I see  every  eye  in  that 
thronged  court  turning  to  the  tall,  majestic,  dark-robed 
figure  which  rises  in  the  midst  of  that  motley  throng. 
Then,  clear  and  loud,  I hear  her  beloved  voice  rin^out. 

“My  lord,”  I hear  her  say.  I raise  my  head  at  the 
sound.  The  eyes  of  bench,  bar,  jury,  and  public  are 
fixed  upon  her.  The  very  prisoner  turns  in  the  dock  and 
gazes  straight  at  her. 

She  gets  no  further  than  those  two  words.  “ Order  in 
the  court!  Order  in  the  court!”  is  shouted  so  sternly 
and  fiercely  that  she  all  but  loses  her  presence  of  mind. 
She  falters,  she  hesitates,  and  glances  helplessly  around.  I 
seize  the  moment.  By  sheer  force  I drag  her  back  to  her 
seat.  I pray  her  by  the  love  she  bears  me  to  wait  in 
silence.  I draw  the  veil  over  her  face,  to  hide  it  from 
the  hundreds  of  curious  eyes  which  are  turned  upon  it 


PARK  DAYS. 


171 


While  so  doing,  I hear  the  sharp  mandate,  “ Turn  that 
person  out  of  court.55 

Had  any  serious  attempt  been  made  to  put  the  order 
in  force,  I believe  that  Philippa  would  have  resisted,  and 
once  more  attempted  to  assert  the  prisoner’s  innocence 
and  her  own  guilt — if  it  was  guilt.  Fortunately  the 
policeman  who  draws  near  us  to  carry  out  the  order  is 
my  friend  of  the  morning  who  had  accepted  my  gold. 
It  may  be  on  this  account  he  favors  us.  It  may  be,  when 
a momentary  disturbance  subsides,  and  the  perpetrator 
does  not  seem  bent  upon  repeating  it,  that  the  expulsion 
is  not  insisted  upon.  It  may  be  that  Philippa’s  accosting 
the  judge  was  looked  upon  as  a solecism  brought  about 
by  the  excitement  of  a weak  woman  who  was  in  some 
way  connected  with  the  prisoner.  I suppose  such  a scene 
does  sometimes  occur;  and  perhaps,  if  its  repetition  is 
guarded  against,  a humanely-minded  judge  will  not  deny 
the  offender  the  sorry  comfort  of  seeing  her  friend’s  trial 
to  the  end.  Perhaps  the  judge  who  this  day  presides  is 
unusually  good-natured  and  easy-going.  Any  way,  our 
friendly  policeman  does  not  carry  out  his  instructions, 
and  the  court  resumes  its  business. 

But  many  curious  looks  are  cast  at  the  veiled  woman 
by  my  side.  1 notice  that  the  hawk-faced  Mrs.  Wilson 
turns  in  her  seat,  and  looks  always  at  us;  and,  strange  to 
say,  I notice  that  the  prisoner  in  the  dock  is  still  staring 
fixedly  in  our  direction.  The  policemen  take  him  by  the 
arms  ; face  him  round  toward  the  bench.  Once  more 
the  solemn  question,  “ Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty?”  is 
asked. 

A short  excited  pause.  The  prisoner  answers.  Well, 
I know  what  he  says,  although  he  speaks  so  faintly  that 
I do  not  hear  his  voice.  Strange  to  say,  his  answer 


172 


DAK&  DAYS. 


seems  to  create  considerable  agitation.  People  who  are 
near  to  him  look  back  and  whisper  to  those  in  the  rear. 
A barrister  turns  in  his  seat,  and  stares  in  a dumbfounded 
way  at  a gentleman  behind  him.  This  gentleman  rises 
up  fussily,  and  bustles  round  to  the  dock,  where  for  a 
minute  he  seems  to  be  engaged  in  earnest  conversation 
with  the  prisoner.  The  latter  shakes  his  head  sullenly 
and  hopelessly.  In  an  apparently  highty-excited  state, 
the  gentleman,  whom  I rightly  judge  to  be  solicitor  for 
the  defence,  hurries  back,  whispers  to  the  barrister,  and 
seems  by  his  gesture  to  be  washing  his  hands  of  some 
responsibility. 

What  does  it  all  mean  ? Why  do  they  not  go  on  with 
the  trial  ? The  suspense  is  growing  more  than  I can  bear. 
Hush ! The  judge  speaks. 

The  excitement  is  spreading  through  the  court.  In 
spite  of  the  warning  looks  of  the  authorities,  people  are 
whispering  to  each  other.  The  judge  is  speaking  earnestly 
to  the  prisoner.  He  seems  to  be  explaining  something, 
counselling  something.  Still  the  man  shakes  his  head 
sullenly.  What  does  it  all  mean  ? 

Mean  ! The  next  solemn  action,  the  next  solemn  words 
of  the  red-robed  judge  answer  my  question,  and  tell  me 
that  a thing  has  come  to  pass  which  never  entered  within 
the  range  of  probability.  Or  have  I been  asleep?  Has 
the  trial  been  gone  through,  and  the  worst,  the  very 
worst,  happened?  No;  five  minutes  ago  I pulled  Phi- 
lippa back  to  her  seat,  and  forced  her  to  withhold  her 
damning  words.  Even  now  my  grasp  is  on  her  to  prevent 
her  from  rising. 

Ila!  Look!  The  judge  places  a square  of  black  silk 
upon  his  head.  The  prisoner  cowers  down.  He  would 
fall,  were  it  not  for  the  arms  which  support  him  on  either 


DARK  DAYS. 


173 


side.  A rustle  of  intense  feeling  runs  through  the  court. 
Men  catch  their  breath;  women’s  eyes  are  distended. 
The  sensation-seekers  are  rewarded.  Hark ! The  judge 
speaks.  I can  hear  him  plainly  now,  although  there  is 
deep  emotion  in  his  voice. 

“ Prisoner  at  the  bar,  yon  are  guilty,  by  your  own  con- 
fession, of  an  atrocious,  cold-blooded  murder,  the  motive 
for  which  is  known  but  to  yourself  and  your  God.  For 
me  only  the  painful  duty  remains — ” 

Guilty ! On  his  own  confession ! The  man  guilty ! 
The  man  to  save  whom  we  have  travelled  night  and  day — 
he  the  criminal!  Philippa,  my  peerless  Philippa!  my 
wife!  my  love!  Innocent!  innocent!  This — this  revul- 
sion of  feeling  is  more  than  human  nature  can  bear! 

“Order  in  the  court!  Order  in  the  court!”  What 
is  it?  Who  is  it  ? Only  a woman  in  a dead  faint.  She 
is  borne  out  tenderly,  lovingly,  proudly,  by  a man  who 
clasps  his  precious  burden  to  a heart  full  of  such  rapture 
as  few  of  his  fellow-creatures  can  ever  have  known. 

But  let  it  also  be  hoped  that  few  have  ever  endured 
such  grief  and  anguish! 


174 


dark  days. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

“ 'WHERE  ARE  THE  SHOWS  THAT  FELL  LAST  YIS&ttf 

ALTHOUGH,  while  engaged  in  the  labor  of  writing 
this  stoiy,  I have  many  times  regretted  that  I am 
frothing  more  than  a plain  narrator  of  facts  and  incidents, 
not  a master  of  fiction,  I think  I hare  not  yet  felt  the  re- 
gret  so  strongly  as  at  the  moment  when  I begin  this 
chapter.  The  sombre  acts  of  the  life-drama  in  which 
Philippa  and  I played  parts  so  painful,  so  full  of  grief 
and  even  if  brightened  by  a ray  of  joy,  of  joy  fallacious 
and  of  uncertain  tenure— these  acts  I have  found  little 
difficulty  m describing  ; I had  simply  to  throw  my  mind 
back  to  the  pictures  of  the  past  and  reproduce  them  in 

words.  The  task,  whether  well  or  ill  done,  was  not  a 
liara  one. 

But  now,  when  in  one  moment  and  as  if  by  magic 
every  thing  changed ; when  sorrow  seemed  to  he  simply 
swept  out  of  our  lives;  when  that  poor  abject  wretch’s 
confession  of  guilt,  forced  from  him  in  some  mysterious 
way,  not  only  left  onr  whole  future  bright  and  cloudless, 
but  consigned  to  rest  all  the  ghosts  of  the  past,  whose 
shadowy  forms  had  hitherto  dogged  our  steps  and  denied 
us  the  happiness  rightly  due  to  those  who  love  as  we 
loved ; now  it  is  that  I feel  my  shortcomings  acutely,  and 
wish  my  pen  was  more  powerful  than  it  is. 

And  yet  a word  will  describe  the  state  of  my  own 
mmu  as,  when  the  last  solemn  words  were  spoken  by  the 


DARK  DAYS. 


175 


iud<re_Spoken  in  a voice  which  showed  emotion  and  dm- 
tress  at  being  compelled  to  condemn  a fellow-creature  to 
death — I carried  my  fainting  wife  from  the  crowded 
reeking  court.  The  momentary  sense  of  rapture  passe 
away ; bewilderment,  sheer  bewilderment,  is  the  word 
for  what  was  left.  I could  not  think.  All  my  reasomng 
faculties  had  left  me.  In  fact,  I believe  that  had  Ph.lippa 
not  swooned,  and  so  needed  my  mechanically  given  care, 

I myself  should  have  fallen  senseless  on  that  threshold 
which  an  hour  before  we  crossed,  thinking  we  were  going 
to  endless  misery. 

I remember  this  much.  As  I laid  Philippa  on  one  of 
the  hard  wooden  benches  in  the  stone  corridor  I kept 
repeating  to  myself,  “ Innocent,  my  love  is  innocent ; 
that  man  is  guilty.”  I suppose  this  continual  reiteration 
was  an  endeavor  to  impress  the  tremendous  fact  upon  my 
brain,  which  for  a time  was  incredulous  and  refused  to 

I threw  up  my  wife’s  veil  and  bathed  her  face  with 
water,  which  was  brought  me  by  a kindly  policeman. 
Presently  her  eyes  opened,  and  consciousness  returned ; 
she  strove  to  speak. 

My  presence  of  mind  was  fast  letuining.  ^ eaies  , 

I whispered,  “as  you  love  me,  not  a word  in  this  place. 

In  a minute  we  will  leave  it.”  . , 

She  was  obedient;  but  I knew  from  the  wild  look  of 
ioy  in  her  eyes  that  obedience  tasked  her  to  the  utmost. 
She  was  soon  able  to  rise,  and  then  we  walked  from  the 
court,  pushed  our  way  through  the  crowd  who  waded  m 
the  street,  busily  discussing  the  sudden  termination  to  the 
trial,  threw  ourselves  into  a cab,  and  in  another  momen 
were  alternately  weeping  and  laughing  in  each  others 

arms. 


176 


DARK  DATS. 


It  was,  however,  but,  for  a moment.  The  inn  to  which 
we  drove  was  close  at  hand.  There  we  were  shown  into 
a room,  and  were  at  last  free  to  give  the  fullest  vent  to 
our  pent-up  feelings. 

It  would  be  absurd  for  me  to  attempt  to  reproduce 
our  words,  our  disjointed  exclamations.  It  would  be 
sacrilege  for  me  to  describe  the  tears  we  shed,  the  em- 
braces, the  loving  caresses  we  lavished  on  each  other. 
Think  of  us  an  hour,  one  short  hour  ago  1 Think  of  u$ 
now ! The  curse  laid  upon  us  by  that  awful  night  re- 
moved forever!  Our  secret  kept,  or  secrecy,  if  still  ad- 
visable, no  longer  absolutely  needful.  Philippa,  in  spite 
of  all  I had  seen,  in  spite  of  all  she  had  told  me  on  that 
night  when  I found  her,  a wild,  distracted  woman,  in  a 
Storm  the  wildest  that  years  have  known,  guiltless  of  her 
husband’s  death ! Innocent  not  only  as  she  had  in  my 
eyes  always  been,  but  also,  what  was  far  more,  innocent 
in. her  own  eyes! 

Small  wonder  that  for  nearly  an  hour  wTe  sat  with  our 
Arms  twined  around  each  other,  and  used  few  words 
which  were  more  than  rapturous  exclamations  of  love 
and  joy. 

There ! I cannot,  .will  not  describe  the  scene  more 
fully.  I will  say  no  more,  except  this:  wdien  at  last  we 
grew  calmer,  Philippa  turned  to  me,  and  once  more  I 
saw  terror  gathering  iti  her  eyes. 

“ Basil,”  she  said,  “ it  is  true — it  must  be  true  V * 

“ True ! of  course  it  is.” 

“That  man,  the  prisoner,  could  not  have  pleaded  guilty 
when  he  was  innocent.” 

“Why  should  he?  It  meant  death  to  him,  poor 
wretch.” 

“ But  why  did  he  confess  ?” 


DARK  DAYS.  177 

“Who  can  tell?  Remorse  may  have  urged  him  to 
do  so.” 

Philippa  rose,  and  her  next  words  were  spoken  quickly 
and  with  excitement. 

“No,  I did  not  do  it.  The  thought,  the  dream 
haunted  me,  but  I did  not  believe  it  until  I heard  those 
men  talk  of  the  way  he  died.  Then  it  all  came  back  to 
me.  The  mad  storm,  the  dead  man  over  whom  I stood  ; 
even  then  I don’t  think  I actually  believed  it.  It  was 
when  you  told  me  how  you  found  me,  that  I lost  all 
hope.” 

“ Dearest,  forgive  me.  I should  have  believed  in  the 
impossibility  of  the  act  even  in  your  delirium,  even  if  I 
had  seen  it  done.  Philippa,  say  you  forgive  me.” 

She  threw  her  arms  around  me.  “ Basil,  my  husband,” 
she  whispered,  “you  have  done  much  for  me,  do  one 
thing  more ; find  out  the  whole  truth — find  out  why  this 
man  killed  him,  how  he  killed  him ; find  out,  satisfy  me 
that  his  confession  was  a true  one;  then,  Basil,  such 
happiness  as  I have  never  even  dreamed  of  will  be 
mine !” 

“ And  mine !”  I echoed. 

I promised  to  do  as  she  wished.  Indeed,  the  moment 
I had  recovered  my  senses,  I resolved  to  learn  everything 
that  could  be  learned.  Once  and  for  all  I would  clear 
away  every  cloud  of  doubt,  although  that  cloud  might  be 
no  bigger  than  a man’s  hand. 

But  Philippa  must  not  stop  in  Tewnham.  Her  strange 
conduct  during  the  trial,  her  fainting-fit  after  it,  were 
bound  to  have  attracted  the  attention  of  those  present. 
No  doubt  she  was  looked  upon  as  a friend  of  the  prisoner, 
who  was  overpowered  by  the  sudden  and  awful  ending 
to  the  case.  Still,  she  must  not  stay  at  Tewnham. 


178 


DARK  DAYS. 

We  went  to  London  by  an  afternoon  train.  The  next 
morning  I again  ran  down  to  tlie  place  at  which  the  trial 
was  held.  I ascertained  the  name  of  the  convict’s  solici- 
tor, and  as  soon  as  I found  him  at  leisure  requested  the 
favor  of  an  interview. 

I found  him  apparently  a worthy,  respectable  man,  but 
of  a nature  inclined  to  be  choleric.  I told  him  I called 
on  him  because  I was  much  interested  in  the  case  of  the 
convict  William  Evans.  Mr.  Crisp,  that  was  his  name, 
frowned  and  fidgeted  about  with  some  papers  which 
were  in  front  of  him. 

“I  would  rather  not  talk  about  the  case,”  he  said 
sharply.  “ Nothing  for  many  years  has  so  much  an- 
noyed me.” 

“ Why  ? Your  client  only  met  with  his  deserts.” 

“ True — true.  But  I am  a lawyer,  sir.  Our  province 
is  not  to  think  so  much  of  deserts  as  of  what  we  can  do 
for  a client.  It  is  hard  to  try  and  serve  a fool.” 

“No  doubt;  but  I scarcely  understand  your  mean- 
ing.” 

“Meaning!  I could  have  saved  that  man.  There 
Was  no  evidence  to  speak  of  against  him.  What  did  it 
amount  to?  A pistol  of  a peculiar  make  found  in  a field 
half  a mile  away  from  the  scene  of  the  murder ; one  man 
who  could  swear  that  the  pistol  was  my  client’s  property 
— a pawnbroker,  to  whom  he  wanted  to  sell  it.  Positively, 
sir,  that  was  the  whole  case  for  the  Crown.  Never  so 
disgusted  in  my  life— never !” 

The  excitable  little  man’s  looks  showed  that  his  disgust 
was  not  assumed. 

So  the  pistol  which  I had  thoughtlessly  hurled  away 
had,  after  all,  furnished  the  clew  and  brought  the  crimi- 
nal to  justice.  Although  I was  not  quite  satisfied  that 


DARK  DAYS. 


179 


the  right  person  was  to  suffer  for  the  dark  crime,  I re- 
solved to  get  all  the  additional  information  I could. 

“ But  why  did  he  plead  guilty  ?”  I asked. 

“ Because  he  was  a fool,”  rapped  out  Mr.  Crisp.  “ It 
was  like  committing  suicide.  I don’t  care  a button  for 
the  man  himself  ; but  I confess  I was  annoyed  at  seeing 
my  case  all  knocked  to  pieces  by  his  obstinacy.  I went 
to  him  ; if  you  were  in  court,  you  no  doubt  saw  me.  I 
begged  him  to  withdraw  his  plea.  I told  him  I could 
save  him.  Yet  the  fool  insisted.” 

“ Did  penitence  or  remorse  urge  him  ?” 
u I don’t  know.  He  could  have  had  more  time  for 
penitence  and  remorse  if  he  had  let  me  save  him  from 
the  gallows.  No ; he  says,  6 It’s  no  good — not  a bit  of 
good.  You  don’t  know  all  I know.  There’s  some  one 
in  court  who  knows  all  about  it— saw  it  all  done.  She’s 
come  to  hang  me.’  I have  no  idea  what  he  meaiit.” 

I started.  I knew  what  the  man  meant.  He,  in  com- 
mon with  every  one  else  in  that  court,  had  turned  and 
looked  at  Philippa  as  she  rose  from  her  seat  and  addressed 
the  judge.  It  was  the  sight  of  Philippa  that  had  taken 
away  the  wretch’s  last  hope  of  escape. 

“ I wash  my  hands  of  the  fellow,  of  course,”  continued 
Mr.  Crisp  ; “ but  I did  take  the  trouble  to  inquire  if  any 
witnesses  for  the  prosecution  had  been  allowed  to  enter 
the  court.  I am  assured  they  were  all  kept  in  waiting 
outside.” 

I sat  for  some  moments  in  deep  thought.  The  solici- 
tor looked  at  me,  as  if  he  fancied  I had  already  taken  up 
as  much  of  his  valuable  time  as  he  could  spare. 

“ Is  there  any  way  of  gaining  access  to  the  condemned 
man  ?”  I said.  “ Could  you,  for  instance,  get  an  order 
to  sec  him  ?” 


180 


DARK  DAYS. 


“No  doubt  I could;  but  I have  no  object  in  seeing 
him.5’ 

“ I will  give  you  an  object/*  I said.  “ I want  you  to 
see  that  mail,  and,  if  possible,  get  a written,  or  at  least 
dictated,  confession  from  liim — not  of  the  bald  fact  that 
lie  is  guilty,  but  of  all  particulars  connected  with  the 
murder.” 

Mr.  Crisp  looked  surprised,  and  expressed  his  opinion 
that  it  was  all  but  impossible  to  obtain  what  I wanted. 

I had  taken  rather  a fancy  to  the  brisk-spoken,  sharp 
little  man.  He  seemed  to  me  trustworthy ; so  that,  after 
consideration,  I determined  to  confide  to  him  my  reason 
for  making  this  request.  Under  the  assurance  of  pro- 
fessional secrecy,  I told  him  briefly  so  much  as  I thought 
fit  of  Philippa’s  and  my  own  connection  with  the  events 
of  that  night.  He  listened  with  an  interest  whick 
augured  well  for  the  reception  which  awaits  the  sombre 
tale  I now  give  to  the  world.  His  curiosity  seemed  ex- 
cited, and  he  promised  to  see  the  convict,  and,  if  possible, 
learn  all  I wanted  to  know.  I left  my  address,  and  bade 
fliim  good-day. 

I did  not  care  to  linger  at  Tewnham ; so  I walked 
down  to  the  railway-station,  intending  to  return  to  town 
by  the  next  train.  As  I waited  on  the  platform  a down- 
train  came  in.  A sudden  impulse  seized  me.  The  day 
was  still  young.  I had  time  to  spare.  I crossed  the 
bridge,  entered  the  train,  and  in  a quarter  of  an  hour 
was  at  Boding.  I went  there  because  I was  impelled  by 
a desire  to  once  more  visit  the  actual  scene  of  the  begin- 
ning of  all  these  troubles. 

I walked  that  road  which  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand  had 
walked  that  dark  night.  But  oh,  how  changed  everything 
was ! Yet  not  more  changed  than  our  own  lives.  It  was 


PARK  DAYS. 


181 


a glorious  afternoon  in  September.  The  ram  of  the  pre- 
ceding day  had  left  the  earth  moist  and  fresh.  The 
fields,  on  either  side  of  the' road,  were  gleaming  with  that 
bright  pure  emerald  which  they  wear  after  the  ruthless 
scythe  has  swept  away  the  ripe  grass  and  the  marguerites 
and  other  flowers  which  grow  among  it ; or  else  they  were 
filled  from  hedge  to  hedge  with  a golden  sea  of  waving 
corn,  or  sheaves  waiting  to  be  garnered ; for  the  harvest 
that  year  was  not  early.  The  wild  roses  were  long  over 
but  fragrant  honeysuckle  and  other  wild  flowers  still 
made  gay  the  hedgerows  and  banks.  The  birds  had 
awakened  from  their  August  silence,  and  were  singing 
once  more.  The  great  sleepy  cows  lay  under  the  sha  e 
of  the  trees.  The  large  mows  of  new  hay  stood  side  by  * 
side  with  their  dingy-looking,  but  more  valuable,  elder 
brothers.  The  whole  land  seemed  wrapped  m happy 
autumnal  repose.  The  scene  was  calm,  peaceful,  and 
thoroughly  typical  of  England.  So  beautiful  it  was  so 
full  I now  felt  of  love  for  my  native  land,  that  had  these 
pages  been  then  written,  I should  upon  my  return  home 
have  erased  all  my  glowing  description  of  Seville. 

A breath  of  soft  but  fresh  air  came  blowing  from  the 
far-away  downs.  I drew  in  a deep  draught ; I threw 
back  my  shoulders  and  stood  erect.  I laughed  aloud  m 
my  great  happiness  as  a comical  picture,  familiar  to  my 
childhood,  of  Christian  losing  his  burden,  rose  before  my 
mind,  and  seemed  to  be  the  exact  thing  wanted  to  illus- 
trate my  own  case.  Yes,  the  burden  I had  borne  had 

fallen Trom  my  back  forever ! 

Ah  t here  is  the  spot— the  very  spot  where  Sir  Mervyn 
fell.  It  was  here,  just  under  that  cluster  of  ragged- 
robins,  I must  have  placed  his  corpse,  little  thinking  that 
the  kind  white  snow  would  hide  it,  and  save  my  love  and 


182 


.DARK  DATS. 


me.  Oh,  how  I prayed  in  those  days  that  the  bitter 
weather  might  last;  that  its  iron  grip  would  hold  the 
world  fast  until  Philippa’s  health  and  strength  returned! 
It  did  so,  and  saved  us ! 

“ Where  are  the  snows  that  fell  last  year  ?”  Ah ! 
should  I not  rather  sing,  “ Where  is  the  grief  of  yester- 
day ?”  Gone  like  the  snow.  Other  snow  may  fall,  other 
grief  may  come,  but  last  year’s  snow  and  yesterday’s 
grief  are  gone  forever ! 

Nevertheless,  that  spot  was  too  suggestive  of  horrible 
reminiscences  for  me  to  linger  long  over  it.  I turned 
away,  and  in  my  great  happiness  could  whisper  to  myself 
that  I forgave  the  dead  man  for  the  ill  he  had  wrought. 
May  his  bones  rest  in  peace ! I walked  along  the  road, 
light  on  until  I came  to  the  cottage  in  which,  like  a cow- 
ard who  could  not  face  his  troubles,  I had  spent  those 
aimless,  miserable  months.  It  was  untenanted.  Half 
defaced  auction  bills  were  in  the  windows  and  on  the 
doorposts;  for  some  months  ago  the  furniture  had  been 
sol<i  I paused  and  looked  at  the  window  by  which 
Philippa  had  entered,  and  felt  that  since  that  night  I had 
passed  through  more  grief,  passion,  fear,  hope^and  joy 
than  would  fill  an  ordinary  lifetime.  Then  I turned  and 
shook  the  dust  off  my  feet.  Never  again  would  I come 
within  twenty  miles  of  this  place. 

On  the  road  back,  to  my  annoyance,  I encountered 
Mis.  Wilson.  I tried  to  pass  without  sign  of  recognition, 
but  she  was  too  quick  for  me.  She  stood  in  front  of  me’ 
and  I was  bound  to  stop. 

She  was  more  haggard,  more  drawn,  more  aquiline- 
looking  than  ever.  Her  eyes  alone  looked  young.  They 
at  least  had  spirit  and  vitality  in  them.  They  positively 
blazed  upon  me. 


183 


DARK  DAYS. 

« She  did  not  do  it,  after  all !”  slie  said  fiercely. 

At  first  I thought  of  affecting  surprise,  and  asking  her 
what  shermeant ; but  I felt  that  any  attempt  at  equivoque 
■would  be  but  vain. 

“ She  did  not,”  I answered  shortly. 

“ Fool  that  1 was !”  she  cried.  “ Fool,  to  be  led  away 
by  an  impulse!  Why  did  I tell  her?  I swear  to  you, 
Dr.  North,  that  had  I not  felt  sure  it  was  her  act,  she 
should  never  have  known.  She  should  have  gone  to  her 
grave  a shamed  woman,  as  I shall  go!”  . 

Her  look  was  venom  itself. 

“ Remember,”  I said  sternly,  “ Lady  Ferrand  is  now 
my  wife.  1 will  not  hear  her  name  coupled  with 
yours.” 

She  laughed  scornfully.  “ Your  wife ! She  soon  for- 
got her  first  love.  Why  did  I speak  ? I wish  my  hand 
had  withered  before  I wrote  that  letter.  Do  you  know 
why  I wrote  it?” 

“ No  ; nor  do  I care.” 

« I wrote  it  for  vengeance.  She  had,  I thought,  served 
that  man  as  I ought  to  have  served  him;  but  I hated  her 
for  it,  for  I loved  him  still.  So  I thought  it  would  be  so 
sweet  for  her  to  know  that  she  had  killed  her  husband, 
and  for  you,  her  lover— I knew  you  were  her  lover— to 
know  that  I could  at  any  moment  give  her  up  to  justice ! 
I was  a fool.  Why  did  that  man  plead  guilty  ? When  I 
saw  your  wife  rise  in  court  T laughed.  I knew  what  Mas 
coming.  Now,  instead  of  harming  her,  I have  done  her 
good.” 

“You  have,”  I said  curtly,  and  turned  upon  my 
heel.  The  malignity  of  this  woman  was  so  intense  that 
I felt  thankful  she  could  in  no  way  work  Philippa 
harm. 


184  DA  UK  DATS. 

A quarter  of  a mile  up  the  road  I turned.  Mrs.  Wil- 
son, a black  spot  on  a fair  scene,  was  standing  gazing 
after  me.  I hurried  on  until  a bend  in  the  path  hid  her 
from  sight.  I hurried  on  hack  to  Philippa  and  happi- 
ness 1 


DARK  DATS. 


186 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

CLEAR  SKIES. 

LTHOTTGH  England  was  now  to  We  and  to  my 
wife  a land  very  different  from  tlie  one  we  quitted 
some  eight  months  ago,  we  were  anxious  to  get  back  to 
Seville, °if  only  to  set  at  rest  my  mother’s  fears..  She, 
poor  woman,  as  a letter  showed,  was  much  exercised  as 
to  what  manner  of  business  could  have  made  us  leave 
her  in  so  unceremonious  a way.  The  moment  the  glad 
truth  had  become  known  to  me,  I had  telegraphed,  saying 
that  all  was  well  with  us,  and  that  we  should  soon  join 
her.  Two  things  ouly  detained  us. 

The  first  was  that  we  wanted  the  convict’s  confession. 
Although  Philippa  said  little  on  the  subject,  I knew  that 
until  it  arrived  she  would  not  be  quite  happy.  There 
was  with  her  a haunting  dread  that  the  man,  in  the  hopes 
of  mitigating  his  sentence,  had  pleaded  guilty  to  a crime 
of  which  he  was  innocent.  Even  the  accurate  account 
which  I gave  her  of  my  interview  with  the  solicitor  did 
not  quite  satisfy  her.  So  we  waited  impatiently  for  the 
full  explanation,  which  might  or  might  not  come. 

The  second  thing  which  kept  us  in  London  was  tins. 
I determined  that  before  I left  I would  have  the  fact 
that  when  I married  Philippa  I married  Lady  Eerrand 
fully  acknowledged.  I found  my  way  to  the  gentlemen 
who  were  winding  up  the  dead  man’s  affairs,  and  stated 


186 


BARK  DATS. 


my  case  to  tlieir  incredulous  ears.  At  first  they  treated 
me  as  an  impostor. 

But  not  for  long.  Indeed,  my'  task  was  half  done. 
They  had  already,  without  any  assistance  from  Mrs.  Wil- 
son, ferreted  out  the  date  and  particulars  of  the  deatli  of 
the  first  Lady  Ferraud.  They  had  but  to  assure  them- 
selves that  the  marriage-certificate  which  I laid  before 
them  was  no  forgery,  and  surrender  at  discretion. 

It  was  a poor  estate,  the  administrators  told  me.  Sir 
Meivyn  had  died  intestate.  He  had  during  his  lifetime 
made  away  with  nearly  all  he  could  alienate.  Still,  there 
was  some  personal  property,  of  which  my  wife  could 
claim  a share,  and  a certain  amount  of  real  property,  on 
which  she  was  entitled  to  dower.  But  it  was  a very  poor 
estate. 

I cut  them  very  short.  I told  them  that,  let  the 
deceased’s  wealth  be  great  or  little,  not  one  penny-piece 
of  it  should  soil  iny  wife’s  fingers.  If  Sir  Mervyn  Fer- 
rand’s  heir  was  in  want  of  the  money,  it  should,  provided 
he  was  a different  stamp  of  man  from  his  immediate  pre- 
decessor, be  given  to  him  a free  gift.  If  not,  some  hos- 
pital should  be  benefited  by  it.  All  I wanted  was,  that 
it  should  be  clearly  understood  that  Sir  Mervyn  Ferrand 
left  a widow. 

The  administrators,  one  of  whom  was,  by  the  bye,  the 
heir,  evidently  looked  upon  me  as  a most  eccentric  per- 
sonage. Perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason,  or— as  I do  not 
wish  to  cast  unmerited  blame— perhaps  it  was  because 
the  estate  wound  up  to  nothing — well,  any  way,  even  to 
this  day  we  have  received  no  communication,  much  less 
remittance,  from  the  administrators;  nor,  to  tell  the 
truth,  have  I troubled  them  again.  Philippa’s  marriage 
Admitted,  I washed  my  hands  of  all  the  Ferrand  brood. 


»AKK  DATS. 


187 


The  confession  did  not  arrive;  but  I persuaded  Phi- 
lippa to  leave  England.  Mr.  Crisp  could  send  whatever 
he  had  to  send  to  Seville  just  as  well  as  to  London.  So 
once  more,  and  this  time  in  all  but  perfect  happiness,  we 
took  that  long  journey  which  was  by  now  quite  familiar 
to  us. 

The  joy,  the  wild  joy,  with  which  Philippa  threw  her- 
self into  my  mother’s  arms  checked  all  the  upbraidings 
and  reproach  which  we  apparently  merited.  Our  return 
was  like  the  return  of  a prodigal  son  and  daughter. 
Laughter,  tears,  and  happiness  * 

Although  I told  my  mother  nothing  as  to  the  object 
of  our  mysterious  journey;  although  she  asked  me 
nothing;  although  no  word  evidencing  her  knowledge 
of  what  had  passed  has  ever  crossed  her  lips,  I know  that 
all  has  been  revealed  to  her ; that  Philippa  has  sobbed 
out  the  whole  strange  tale  on  her  breast.  I know  it  by 
this,  that  since  the  day  of  our  return  my  mother’s  deep 
love  for  my  wife  has  shown  itself  even  tenderer,  sweeter, 
and  deeper.  Yes,  I was  spared  the  telling  of  the  tale. 
My  mother’s  eyes  the  next  day  showed  me  that  Philippa 
had  given  her  the  history,  as  I have  given  it  here,  from 
beginning  to  end. 

No,  not  quite  the  end.  Sit  by  me  once  more,  as  I asked 
you  at  the  beginning  of  my  story  to  sit  by  me ; but  this 
time,  not  by  the  side  of  a smouldering  fire,  but  out  in  the 
fair,  gay  patio  of  our  Andalusian  home.  Philippa  and  I 
are  side  by  side.  The  post  has  just  come  in,  and  brought 
me  a bulky  packet,  on  which,  in  a clerkly  hand,  is  writ- 
ten iny  name  and  address.  I tear  the  wrapper  open  with 
eagerness.  I know  what  it  contains;  Philippa  knows. 
I wish  to  read  it  first  alone,  but  the  appealing  look  in 
her  eyes  turns  me  from  my  purpose.  After  all,  there  is 


188  BARK  BAYS. 

nothing  to  fear,  there  can  be  nothing  which  she  should 
not  know.  So,  with  our  cheeks  all  but  touching,  we 
read  together.  Sit  by  us,  lean  over  my  shoulder,  and 
read  with  us. 

“The  confession  of  William  Evans,  now  lying  in 
Tewnham  jail  under  sentence  of  death : 

“On  the  fifth  of  January,  this  year,  I returned  from 
New  Zealand.  I worked  my  passage  home.  When  I 
readied  London  I had  but  a few  shillings  in  my  pocket. 
I had  no  articles  of  value  which  I could  sell.  All  I 
owned,  except  my  clothes  and  the  little  bit  of  fiioney, 
was  a pistol  which  a man  on  board  the  ship  had  given  me. 
It  was  a pistol  of  his  own  invention.  He  had  several 
with  him,  and  said  he  wanted  to  get  the  sort  known. 
Why  he  gave  it  to  me  God  knows ; but  he  did,  and  a 
couple  of  cartridges. 

“I  spent  my  money — all  but  a shilling  or  two.  I 
tried  to  get  work,  but  none  was  to  be  had.  Then  I re- 
membered that  I once  had  a friend  who  lived  near  Ro- 
ding.  I went  there  by  train.  I had  just  enough  money 
to  pay  my  fare.  I found  that  the  man  I knew  had  left 
the  place  two  years  ago.  I walked  back  to  the  town 
penniless  and  desperate. 

“ The  first  thing  I did  was  to  go  to  the  pawnbroker’s, 
and  try  and  sell  the  pistol.  The  man  wouldn’t  buy  it  at 
any  price.  He  said  his  shop  was  full  of  pistols.  I went 
away,  and  walked  to  the  railway  station  to  try  and  earn  a 
few  pence  somehow.  I was  in  despair — all  but  starving. 

“About  seven  o’clock  the  train  from  London  came  in. 
A tall  gentleman  came  out  of  the  door  of  the  station.  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  any  luggage  I could  carry  for  him. 
He  told  me  to  be  off.  Then  I asked  him,  for  pity’s  sake, 


DATtK  DATS. 


189 


to  give  me  a shilling  to  buy  some  food.  He  cursed  me,, 
and  I began  to  hate  him. 

“ He  stood  under  the  gas-lamp  and  drew  out  a great 
gold  watch  and  looked  at  the  time.  Then  he  asked  a 
man  near  which  road  he  must  take  to  get  to  a village 
named  Cherwell.  The  man  told  him.  I saw  him  walk 
away,  and  I knew  where  he  was  going. 

“I  shall  be  hanged  next  week;  there  is  no  hope  for 
me.  But  I tell  the  truth  when  I say  that,  bad  fellow  a» 
I have  been,  I had  never  committed  such  a crime  as  the 
one  which  at  that  moment  entered  my  head.  That  tall 
man  had  money,  jewelry,  and  good  clothing ; I had  noth- 
ing. I was  starving.  So  I ran  on,  got  before  him,  went 
miles  up  the  road,  and  sat  down  in  the  bitter  cold  on  a 
heap  of  stones,  waiting  for  him  to  come,  and  making  up 
my  mind  to  kill  and  rob  him.  I knew  I must  kill  him, 
because  he  was  so  much  stronger  and  bigger  than  I was. 
My  pistol  was  loaded. 

“He  came.  I saw  him  in  the  moonlight.  I stood  up 
as  he  came  near  and,  God  forgive  me,  pulled  the  trigger, 
and  shot  him  through  the  heart.  He  fell  like  a stone, 
and  I knew  I was  a murderer. 

“ Oh,  if  I could  I would  have  undone  the  deed ! I 
*tood  for  a long  time  before  I dared  to  go  to  the  body 
• and  steal  the  things  for  which  I had  committed  the  crime. 
Then  I nerved  myself  and  went  to  take  the  price  for 
which,  unless  God  is  merciful,  I had  sold  my  soul. 

“I  never  took  a farthing;  Just  as  I was  about  to  be- 
gin I heard  the  sound  of  feet.  I looked  up,  and  saw  a 
woman  or  a spirit  coming  to  me.  I dropped  the  pistol 
in  terror.  I felt  sure  she  saw  me.  I looked  at  her  under 
the  moon.  Her  face  was  white,  her  lips  were  moving, 
her  hair  was  all  flying  about.  She  came  straight  to 


190 


DA  UK  DATS. 

where  the  dead  man  lay,  then  stopped  and  wrong  her 
hands.  I fled  away  in  deadly  fear.  I ran  across  several 
fields.  I dared  not  stop.  I thought  that  spirit  or  ghost 
was  following  me.  * 

“I  ran  on  until  the  snow  began.  I must  have  died  in 
that  snow-storm  if  I had  not  found  a half-roofed  cowshed. 
I crept  into  this,  and  lay  all  the  night  and  part  of  the 
next  day.  I was  the  most  wretched  being  in  the  world. 

“Hunger  at  last  drove  me  out.  I got  through  the 
show  somehow,  and  reached  a house,  where  the  people 
saved  me  from  dying  of  starvation.  But  nothing  could 
make  me  go  again  to  the  spot  where  I had  done  the 
murder.  My  life  since  then  has  been  one  of  agony. 
Even  now  that  I am  going  to  be  hanged  I am  happier 
than  I have  felt  for  months.  May  God  forgive  my  crime ! 

“I  pleaded  guilty  at  the  trial  because  I turned  round 
in  the  dock,  and  saw  the  woman  who  I thonght  was  a 
spirit  standing  up  and  ready  to  denounce  me  to  the 
judge.  I knew  that  she  saw  me  that  night,  and  I was 
bound  t,o  be  found  guilty. 

“ I have  confessed  all.  Every  word  of  this  is  truth. 
As  I hope  for  mercy,  it  is  all  true ! 

“William  Evans. 

“ P.  S. — I took  the  above  confession  down  from  the 
prisoner’s  dictation.  It  should  be  all  you  want.  The 
man  seems  thoroughly  penitent,  but  I do  not  trouble  you 
with  his  expressions  of  remorse  and  regret. 

“ I remain,  dear  sir,  yours  faithfully, 

“Stephen  Ceisp.” 

We  read  the  last  lines ; the  paper  fluttered  down  from 
our  hands;  we  turned  to  each  other.  Tears  of  deep 
thankfulness  were  in  my  wife’s  sweet  eyes.  Down  to 


DAKK  DATS. 


191 


the  smallest  detail,  the  wretched  man’s  confession  made 
everything  clear.  Nothing  was  left  unexplained,  except, 
perhaps,  the  motive  which  induced  Philippa  to  go  that 
night  to  meet  her  would-be  betrayer  once  more.  This 
we  shall  never  know,  but  her  temporary  madness  may 
amply  account  for  it.  We  need  seek  no  further;  the 
faintest  doubt  as  to  her  own  perfect  innocence  is  removed 
from  my  wife’s  mind.  Hand  in  hand,  heart  to  heart,  lip 
to  lip,  we  can  stand,  and  feel  that  our  troubles  are  at  last 
over. 

Our  troubles  over ! Shall  those  words  be  the  last  I 
write  ? No,  one  scene  more — tiie  scene  that  lies  before 
me  even  now. 

An  English  lion  e.  Outside,  green  shaven  lawns,  trim 
paths,  and  fine  ola  trees.  Inside,  the  comfort  and  the 
peace  which  make  an  English  home  the  sweetest  in  the 
world.  For  when  the  need  was  gone ; when  sunny  Spain 
no  longer  was  for  us  the  one  safe  land,  its  charms  dimin- 
ished, and  we  pined  to  see  once  more  England’s  fair  fields 
and  ruddy  honest  faces.  So  back  we  came,  and  made 
ourselves  a home,  far,  far  away  from  every  spot  the  sight 
of  which  might  wake  sad  thoughts.  And  here  we  live, 
and  shall  live  till  that  hour  when  one  of  us  must  kiss  the 
other’s  clay-cold  brow,  and  know  that  death  has  parted 
those  whom  naught  but  death  could  part. 

Look  out ; look  through  this  shaded  window.  There 
she  sits,  my  wife;  a tall  son  at  her  side,  fair  daughters 
near  her.  Years,  many  years  have  passed,  but  left  no 
lines  upon  her  brow ; brought  no  white  threads  to  streak 
that  raven  hair.  The  rich  bright  beauty  of  the  girl  is 
still  her  own.  To  me,  now  as  of  yore,  the  sweetest, 
fairest  woman  in  the  world ! 

The  children  see  me  as  I gaze  with  thoughtful  happy 


192 


DARK  DATS. 


eyes  upon  that  group  beneath  the  trees.  They  call  and 
beckon  me.  My  wife  looks  up;  her  eyes  meet  mine, 
just  raised  from  these  sad  pages.  Ah ! love,  sweet  love, 
in  those  dear  eyes  what  was  it  once  my  fate  to  read  ? 
Shame,  sorrow,  dread,  despair,  and  love.  All  these,  save 
love,  have  vanished  long  ago ; and  as  I turn  to  pen  these 
lines — the  last — that  look  of  calm,  assured,  unclouded  joy 
keeps  with  me,  telling  me  that  from  her  -life  has  passed 
even  the  very  memory  of  those  dark,  dark  dayg  t 


9 


-1 


t 


V 


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;> 


ccessful  Novell, 


¥ Just  like  this  book. 


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TITLES  AND  AUTHORS. 


1. 

2. 
3* 
4* 
5- 
6. 

7* 

8. 

9- 

10. 

11. 

12. 


Wee  Wifie  - Rosa  N.  Carey 
piir  Bessie  - Rosa  N.  Carey 
Baron  Munchausen  R.  E.  Raspe 
Beyond  Pardon  Bertha  M.  Clay 


*3- 

*5* 

i6,. 

*7r 

18. 

19- 


Black  Beauty  - 
Donovan  - 
Friendship 
Moths 

The  Sketch  Book 
pjfee  Two  - 
Andersen’s 
Dawn  J *'-'■•** 

The  Duchess 
Duke’s 
Evil  Genius 


Anna  Sewell 
Edna  Lyall 
" Ouida  n 
Ouida  " 
W.  Irving 
Edna  Lyall 
:s 


H.  Rider  Haggard 


20. 


22. 

?3- 

24. 

25. 


26. 


*The  Duchess 
• Bertha  M.  Clay 
j%||  Wilkie  Collins 
Frozen  Pirate  - \V.  Clark  Russell 
Hon.  Mrs  Vereker  “ The  Duchess*’ 
Jane  Eyre  - Charlotte  Bronte 
King  Solomon!s  Mines 

M*  R idNejr  Haggard 
A Life  Interest  Mrs.  Alexander 
Master  of  Ballantrae 

R.  L,  Stevenson 
Merry  Men  * R.  L.  Stevenson 
A Modern  Circe  “ The  Duchess  " 
Mona’s  Choice-  Mrs.  Alexander 
Mystery  of  a Hansom ! 

Cab  - - Fergus  Hume 

The  Scarlet  Letter  N,  Hawthorne 


TITLES  AND  AUTHORS. 


27. 

284 

29: 

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31. 

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33. 

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P- 

42. 


She  - - H.  Rider  Haggard 

When  a Man's  Single  J,  M.  Barrie 
Averil  - - Rosa  N.  Carey 

As  ina  Looking  Glass  F.C  Philips 
At  Bay  - - Mrs.  Alexander 

At  War  with  Herself 

Bertha  M.  Clay 
Blind  Love  - Wilkie  Collins 
Camille  - - Alex.  DunsM*  Jr. 

Lady  Vabrorth's  Dia- 
monds  - - M The  Duchess 

Dark  Days  - Hugh  Conway 
Dora  Thcrae  - Bertha  M.  Clay 
Her  Martyrdom  Ber|ltt  M.  Clay 
In  the  Golden  Days 
Kith  and  Kin  - jessii 
A Knight  Errant 
Lady  Audley's  Si 


43- 

44* 

45- 

46. 


- 

E.  Braddon 


49- 

5t>. 


A Life’s 

A Lost  Wife  Mrsy 
Master  of 
Rory  O'Mote 
Wife  in  Name  Only 

v:j^^r^Bertha  M.  Ssliife 
Won  by  Waiting  - Edna 
Twenty  Thousand  Leagues 
Under  thed 

The  Two  Orohans  R, 


International  Book  Com 


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